Bow, Meet Arrow
by x.windance
Summary: Carys is a Woad who is suffering from amnesia after being injured at the hand of one of Arthur's Knights, and is brought back to the fort to heal.Now, she must risk losing more than just her mind to a Knight as lost as she.R&R!Rated T for now,may go up.
1. One

**Super long Author's Note! : **

**So, after much reviewing of my story, UNDISCLOSED DESIRES, I decided to delete it and completely rewrite it. I just wasn't happy with it. Thank you to everyone who loyally read and reviewed what I had written; I hope you like this version just as well! **

**Alright, so, warning … this story is going to be VERY AU. It is set about a year before the movie; the Emperor of the Western Roman Empire at the time of Rome's withdrawal of Britain was Honorius. He was usurped by a man named Constantine III, who was proclaimed Emperor of Britain. I'm taking historical liberties here, please don't kill me. Also, I am naming the fort at Badon Hill as Uxelodonum, which was the largest Roman fort of Hadrian's Wall. **

**Ummmmmm ….. so, ya. I hope you enjoy! Please review; I love to hear your words of praise and encouragement and even your (constructive) criticism. Thank you!**

**Disclaimer: Anything you recognize from the movie King Arthur does not belong to me. Unfortunately. **

__________

**Chapter One**

It was barely dawn, and the sun that crept in to the sky was weary and reluctant, still clutching its shroud of mist possessively. The air was sharply crisp, hailing the transition of autumn in to winter, and their breath fogged before them when they exhaled. The trees made the only noise in the silence of the forest, speaking to each other with groans and sighs. A few tenacious leaves, withered and brown, clinging desperately to their branches, stirred and whispered excitedly as a breeze swept through the otherwise barren canopy.

As they moved deeper in to the forest, and the sun moved higher in to the sky, the mist began to dissipate, revealing the landscape around them like an artist revealing a masterpiece. The ground, saturated by the previous night's rain, had assumed a rich mahogany tone, accentuating the brilliant red and gold leaves that littered its surface. Graying moss crawled down the trunks of the russet trees in to the tawny grass. For this reason, autumn was her favorite season; she had no affection for snow or the frigid temperatures of winter, and felt miserable in the humid heat of summer. Spring, a close second, just could not compare to the vibrant colors of autumn.

She studied her surroundings with wide gray eyes and a smile upon her full lips, until her brother, Owain, interrupted her reverie.

"Carys!" he hissed, and her eyes snapped forward instantly. He looked frustrated, and no doubt he'd attempted to attract her attention more than once before she'd finally reacted; Carys was notorious for daydreaming, and it was the main reason her parents had elected to keep her out of the battlefield by only educating her in archery. She raised her brows expectantly at him, smirking as he tossed his head to clear his vision of his stubborn forelock. "Can you hear that?"

Now that she was no longer bobbing in a daze, Carys certainly could hear _that_. Voices penetrating their solitude, raucous, arrogant _Roman_ voices, no doubt. Scowling, Carys nodded. Trust the Romans to ruin a perfectly lovely autumn morning, ideal for hunting.

Grinning wickedly, Owain jerked his head in the direction of the voices, signaling for them to move closer. While Owain might not have shared Carys's aptitude for daydreaming, they did share a craving for mischief that sometimes drove them to be needlessly reckless. Spying on and tormenting a group of Roman soldiers of unknown size and skill was one of these situations, but they were in Woad territory, and no matter how slight their trespass, they warranted an attack.

Owain dashed ahead and Carys followed, moving towards the voices. Carefully, they picked their way through the undergrowth, and were swift to conceal themselves when the scarlet flash of Roman cloaks appeared against the earthen backdrop of the forest. Pressed against neighboring trees, Carys and Owain exchanged impish glances as they strained their ears to eavesdrop upon the conversation.

"I 've got to take a piss," one man said, and Carys shook her head slightly in distaste; men were such foul creatures, truly. Owain sniggered quietly, mostly at the expression on Carys's face, and then silenced abruptly when the Roman aching to relieve himself came crashing in their direction.

"Don't wander off too far, Blandus, the Woads might get you!" called another man in a taunting tone, and he and several other men laughed heartily.

"It's no laughing matter, Otho," Blandus shouted back, "we shouldn't be north of the Wall!"

Carys and Owain shook their heads ruefully in agreement. Indeed, no Roman should ever dare stray north of the Wall; Woads were vengeful beings.

"Calm yourself, Blandus," another man this time, his voice betraying his boredom, "the Woads pose no threat to _us_."

_Arrogant Roman bastards,_ Carys said to herself, rolling her eyes with incredulity.

Blandus, finished relieving himself, made his blundering way back to his comrades, saying, "I hope that Constantine can dispose of these barbarians better than _Honorius_."

Honorius was the current Emperor of Western Rome, Carys knew; her Father instilled in his children the importance of knowing all they could concerning their enemy, but who was this Constantine? She stored the name in her memory, deciding to inquire about it when she next saw her Father.

Casting a sidelong glance at Owain, she consented when he motioned for her to climb the tree at her back. Slinging her bow over her shoulder she scaled the tree until she reached a sturdy branch at a good vantage point. The canopy did little to conceal her, however, and Carys felt uneasy presenting herself as such an obvious target. Below her, the Romans were oblivious to their peril; there were only nine of them, and it would make for quick work for archers of Owain's and Carys's caliber. She watched Owain circle stealthily around their quarry, until finally he ascended a tree almost opposite of where Carys crouched. She notched an arrow onto her bow string, watching Owain intently. He would be the one to loose the first arrow, and as soon as he had positioned himself comfortably upon the bough, he fluidly knocked an arrow, aimed and released.

Carys followed his example, taking aim at a target and releasing the bow string. Before that arrow reached its mark, another followed, this one striking a soldier just above his armor, in the dimple of his throat. The Romans were panicked now; wide eyes scanning the trees, swords drawn.

"Woads!" one man screamed, "We're doom –" His cry was cut short by Carys's arrow plunging in to his right eye. He remained standing, as still as a statue for a moment, rocking back on his heels and then falling backward stiffly. Carys could not help but commend herself on such a perfect shot, no matter how gruesome.

"To the horses!" another man shouted, but the horses would not save the two men remaining. Almost simultaneously, Carys and Owain dispatched of them, and they fell to the ground flailing, mid-sprint.

Feeling a smug sense of satisfaction, Carys reclined against the tree, extending her legs over the bough. Laying her bow across her lap, she watched Owain descend from his tree, picking his way through the cluster of dead Romans towards the horses; terrified, they screeched and whinnied and strained against their tethers as the scent of blood assailed their delicate nostrils. There would be plenty of time to raid the Romans' pockets and eat whatever food they had, but if the horses continued to carry on this way, they would surely be heard.

With his soft voice and strong hands, Owain soothed them, and with a sigh Carys drifted off in to a daze, thinking of nothing in particular; which is why she did not hear the horses swiftly approaching them, and did not heed Owain's cautious attempts to attract her attention until he finally resorted to a much less discreet method.

"Carys!" he bellowed, and she started, nearly toppling sideways from her perch. Her indignation faded quickly, to be replaced by fear when she heard the hoof-beats.

_Shit, shit, shit!_ She chanted in her mind. She was descending the tree much too slowly; the group of riders was nearly upon them. She heard Owain call her name again, and Carys cursed under her breath. She was going as fast as she could! – but the arrow slicing through the air towards her was going much faster. It plunged in to her side, just below her rib cage, and Carys felt the pain through a sudden state of shock. Numb, her fingers relinquished their grip on the branch above her, and the sickening weightless sensation of falling was the last thing Carys was aware of before everything went black.

Owain watched her sail through the air with dread heavy in his gut. She was almost immediately surrounded by seven men, and a feeling of awe eased its way through his fear as he recognized them as the Knights of the Round Table. Crouching behind the wide base of a cedar tree, every fiber of his being screamed for Carys; he must engage the Knights, and save his sister. But he knew that would not save her; it would kill them both. Instead, he squatted low, and listened.

__________

The Knights slid from their horses, and Tristan approached the Woad woman sprawled upon the ground. His arrow had pierced her flesh from the back, and upon her falling on her back on the ground, had snapped and torn a vicious hole through her front. She had been unlucky enough also, that when she fell she had cracked her head upon a rock protruding from the ground, opening a bloody gash upon her temple and rendering her mercifully unconscious.

Tristan stooped, and pressed his fingertips to her pale throat. Her pulse was there, but it was gradually fading. She wouldn't last much longer. He stood, drawing his sword. Arthur, materializing swiftly at his side, stayed his hand.

"Is she alive?"

Tristan nodded. "Shall I finish her?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, she poses no threat to us now."

Tristan shrugged, sheathing his sword. She would bleed out eventually. One could only hope that she would remain unconscious for the time it took her to do so.

He prowled away, joining his fellow Knights in examining the bodies of the Romans. None were alive, and whilst Arthur was preoccupied studying the Woad, there was nothing stopping them from raiding the bodies for their valuables. Bors was munching happily on a strip of dried venison, and Gawain took a swig of mead from a canteen before passing it to Galahad.

Tristan joined Lancelot and Dagonet in wrangling the soldiers' horses; there were eight horses to seven men. One was missing – the Woad had not been alone. Were they being watched, even now? His keen eyes scoured the area. He saw evidence of a single horse passing through the undergrowth, the tall grass bowed slightly to accommodate the animal's shape, and fresh prints leading away from the site.

Before he could investigate further, Arthur said, "Come, let us return to the fort. We will send a wagon back for these men." Tristan frowned; how unlike Arthur, to leave them laying here, unattended. Much too callous for Arthur. Turning back, leading two of the horses, his confusion was put to rest. Arthur was already mounted upon his gleaming white stallion, and the Woad girl was balanced in his arms. Tristan felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"What are you doing with that?" Lancelot asked him, gesturing to the girl while securing the reins of two of the horses in his hands to his saddle, and Gawain took the remaining horse and tied it to his own. Lancelot had mounted his black-bay stallion before Arthur responded.

"I will not leave her here to die," he explained, shifting the girl more comfortably across his lap.

Fastening the horses to his saddle, Tristan shook his head and sighed. Arthur and his nobility … Tristan should have known better than to assume that he would allow the Woad to simply die, as he would have, but to Arthur, she was now a helpless girl, not their enemy.

"She's a Woad," Bors said gruffly, dismissively.

"And a human being," Arthur responded sharply.

"She wasn't alone," Tristan said, eager to have Arthur leave her here. Despite Arthur's good intentions, Tristan somehow doubted the Woad would see it as anything other than kidnapping when she awoke, and no good would come of kidnapping an enemy. Mounting his tall gray mare, the leather of his saddle creaked under his weight. Arthur fixed him with a penetrating gaze, his mouth pressed in to a thin white line. "I saw tracks, leaving the area – "

"Then she is alone now," Arthur snapped. It was tiresome to have to defend his actions against his Knights, who found his unyielding graciousness just as annoying. Finished arguing, Arthur urged his stallion forward, and they set off back towards the fort, their pace hindered somewhat by the eight extra horses strapped to their saddles. Though it was not half an hour's walk on foot back to the fort, Arthur prayed the girl would survive the journey.

__________

When Carys awoke, she knew nothing but the overwhelming desire to vomit, and she flung herself over the side of the bed, retching the foul contents of her stomach. The abrupt movement caused the room to pitch violently, and with a groan, Carys fell back in to the bed she lay in, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples to keep her head from falling off of her shoulders and rolling on to the floor, and winced in pain when her hand scraped against a row of stitches in her head.

"Careful, now," a voice assaulted her ears; though the woman spoke softly, her words reverberated in Carys's skull as though she were being bashed over the head with them. Carys's eyes flew open, to see a woman – no, _two_ women who looked exactly the same – entering the room cautiously. Carys's stomach roiled as she watched the woman become two women, the images merging and separating constantly. Her eyes were wide in wariness, but her small, full mouth was tipped in to a kind, yet nervous smile.

Instinctively, Carys leapt to her feet, obstinately dismissing her body's protest against the abrupt change in altitude. She swayed on her feet, and the room dipped and swerved as if she were on a boat on an angry ocean. She grasped the wall for support, gasping for air. A searing pain stabbed in her side, and she groaned, doubling over and grimacing.

"No, please," the woman said, her voice muffled through the pounding in Carys's head; "You need to lie down." She stepped closer to Carys, arms outstretched as if to embrace her, but swiftly Carys dodged her, her hand gripping the mantle of the hearth to keep herself upright. Her legs were trembling beneath her, and her head was spinning. She squinted her eyes in an attempt to keep the room in focus, but objects floated and tipped with the motion of the room. She swallowed the acrid bile that bubbled in her throat, and her free hand, swinging low, brushed the length of a cold shaft of metal. When the woman approached her once more, crooning soothingly to her in words Carys could no longer understand, Carys evaded her once more, fingers closing numbly around a fire poker. Her arm feeling frail, she managed to raise the fire poker up in to the air, and very nearly struck the woman with it. She backed away quickly, mouth drawn taut and face pale, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

"Who are you?" Carys croaked, her voice sounding entirely foreign; rough and breathless.

"I am Bronwyn," the woman replied gently, "I am a Healer. I want to help you."

The fire poker wavered in the air, and Carys could feel the muscles in her shoulder cord as she redoubled her effort. "Where am I?" Carys demanded.

"You are at Uxelodonum," Bronwyn told her, "at Hadrian's Wall." In her mind's eye, Carys briefly saw an image of an enormous wall, gray and menacing, like a huge angry dragon stretching endlessly across a vibrant green landscape. As quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, and Carys's stomach began to churn once more. Her skin was _burning._ Why was it so _hot? _The walls were pressing in on her. Her heart began to race in panic, and she felt lightheaded. She had to get out of here before the walls crushed her between them. Slowly, she retreated towards the door, and the cold air from the hallway beckoned at her back, caressing her smoldering skin. Carys cast a longing glance over her shoulder towards the outdoors, and hesitated no further; she spun around, and reeling and blundering as if drunk, stumbled from the room.

"No!" Bronwyn shouted, "Please come back!" _Shit_, she thought to herself, gathering her skirts in her small hands before following the Woad. _Angharad_ _will have my hide for this._ Just picturing Angharad's weathered face, slim, downturned mouth and icy blue eyes fraught with disapproval was enough to chill her heart.

It was approaching dusk, but the sunlight, however dim it was, pricked Carys's eyes maliciously, and she recoiled from it, ducking in to the shadows that clung to the walls. Carys staggered through the streets, oblivious to the stares directed at her, disregarding the cold that assaulted her bare legs and arms. She was dimly aware of Bronwyn's voice chasing her, and it motivated her to continue. Her body, however, was in violent disagreement. Her knees began to quiver, and she was barely able to slip in to a narrow alley before her legs collapsed beneath her. She fell to her hands and knees on the wet cobblestone path, heedless of the stones biting in to her bony knees and the palms of her hands, and vomited profusely. She grimaced as it splashed her arms, and struggled to her feet once more, wheezing, clinging to the wall for support.

She heard footsteps but paid them no heed; surely she was hidden well enough? But no, she was not. A voice, pleasantly deep and soothing came from before her. "Hey," the man said, "are you alright?"

Carys looked up, to see a tall, burly man with a lion's mane of golden curls, bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks above a thick russet beard standing there, crouched to peer into her face with ease. Carys now regretted having relinquished her trusty fire poker at some point during her escape. "Who are you?" she said, her voice dry and hoarse and strained for breath.

"I am Gawain," he said, taking a step closer. She made a pathetic sight, he thought, hunkered over like some sort of deformed creature, swaying where she stood despite one skinny arm extended to the wall for support. Her stormy gray eyes shone with tears, and were red-rimmed in her gaunt face. A mixture of vomit and spittle coated her chin, and the black slash of stitches at her temple was stark against her pale skin. Her skinny knees were scraped and bleeding, her bare feet and shins splattered with mud and dirty water. "What's your name?"

Carys opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it again, groping for her name. Her head ached with the effort, and her pulse skyrocketed when no response came to her probing. _I do not know my name_. Promptly, her eyes rolled grotesquely back in to her skull before her eyelids fluttered down, and with a perfectly maidenly sigh she collapsed.

Gawain lunged forth as her knees buckled, and she fell limp into his arms. She was much lighter than he'd anticipated; for a woman so tall she was very thin – all bones and lean muscle. He hoisted her easily in to his arms, spotting at once the circle of blood blooming upon her tunic. He hustled her back towards the healing rooms, and Bronwyn met him on the way.

"Oh, Gawain," she said, relieved, "Thank you." She too noticed the blood at the girl's side. "Stupid girl; ripped her stitches." Gawain followed Bronwyn back to the infirmary and in to a small room that had obviously been occupied by the Woad before she'd decided to flee; her puke still smeared the floor and her blood stained the white linens. Bronwyn stood aside while Gawain laid her gently down on the bed, and then gripped him by the arm. "_Please_ don't tell Angharad," she begged. "She's supposed to be my patient, and if Angharad finds out she'll never trust me again."

Gawain pictured Angharad, the foremost Healer at the fort. She was a wispy woman, with black and silver hair, icy blue eyes and a face that reminded him of old leather. Her thin mouth was constantly turned downward in to a frown, and her surliness rivaled that of Bors's in a temper. It was Angharad, and not the fear of pain, that motivated him to keep from getting wounded in battle. He shuddered. "I try to avoid Angharad," he told her, and Bronwyn chuckled ruefully.

"Thank you for your help," Bronwyn said, and Gawain smiled and nodded at her before taking his leave. Muttering beneath her breath, Bronwyn set to work cleaning the girl up and redoing her stitches. She hoped that the Woad would be more cooperative in the morning; the Gods knew she had a few other things she would much rather be doing than chasing this foolhardy Woad through the streets. Blushing, she thought of her sweet husband Kay, of his strong arms and sweet kisses. They had been married just two weeks ago, but she had loved him long before.

He had been one of Arthur's Knights, until he had suffered a critical injury to his thigh had rendered him unable to ride a horse; he was now the farrier and the stable manager for the fort. Tall and handsome with immaculately groomed mahogany curls that fell to his shoulders, and an equally tidy goatee that framed his full, smiling mouth. It had been his eyes, his beautiful evergreen eyes that had first entranced Bronwyn, and then his kindness and easy laughter; their enlistment in the Roman army and their life of violence had turned most of the Knights bitter and angry, but not her sweet Kay.

It was Kay who met her in the hallway that night, after Bronwyn had finished tending the Woad and scrubbing the vomit from the floor, his smile a beacon in the darkness. He kissed first her lips, and then her collar bone (he said that was one of his favorite places to kiss her; he could feel her pulse in her throat and stare in to her cleavage at the same time), and then took her hand and spirited her back to their little hut where he held her gently in the circle of his powerful arms after they made love.

__________

Owain arrived back at camp late that night; the fires of the rough huts were all extinguished, save for one. Dismounting from the back of the tall, sturdy chestnut mare he had taken, he approached his Father's hut, filled with remorse. He secured the mare's reins to a post outside his door, and then slowly entered, chin to his chest.

"You have returned alone?" Merlin's voice was soft, barely audible above the crackling of the fire. It was more of a statement than a question, and Owain immediately suspected his Father needed no confirmation from him - that he knew for certain already.

Owain listened to his sister's deep breathing as she slept, her face turned away from the fire. He studied Guinevere's mahogany curls, gleaming in the firelight, and then glanced at Carys's empty bedroll, wishing to see her raven's-wing black crown, her smooth ivory brow. She slept facing the fire, with the fur pulled up over her face to her proudly arched black eyebrows ... said she liked the way the heat of the flames lapped at her skin and everything away from the fire was bitterly cold.

"Yes, Father," he answered, at long last. There was no one in Carys's bed, and staring at it would not change that.

"Does Carys live?"

"I know not; she was injured and Arthur Castus has taken her to the Wall."

Merlin nodded sagely. "Then, she lives," he said, his tone certain. Owain felt relief ease the heavy weight in his chest. Though he did not pretend that his wise Father was omniscient, he would cling desperately to even the slightest sliver of hope. "Sleep, my son," Merlin said, "I will have words with you tomorrow."

Obediently, Owain crawled between his furs, his eyes sliding shut, but did not sleep. _I am so sorry, Carys_, Owain thought dismally, _I have failed you. _He prayed to the Goddess to keep his sister alive. _I will save you,_ he vowed_._


	2. Two

**Chapter Two**

The sun rose the next morning into a cloudless blue sky, and filtered, most unwelcome, through the small window of Carys's room, spilling over the bed and searing Carys's eyes. With a groan, she twisted away from it, covering her eyes with her fingers. She cursed when her stitches grated against the pillow, bringing tears to her eyes. Instead of turning away from the window, she resorted to tugging the fur up over her head. Lying now in a cocoon of heat and darkness, Carys drifted off into thought.

She could remember only snatches of the night before; she remembered a young woman with strawberry blonde hair and wide eyes, but could not summon a name to match her face. She remembered dashing through the streets of an unfamiliar place, and a man who reminded her of a mountain lion. Dread swelled in her chest; her mind was devoid of anything that had taken place before she had awoken in this same room the evening before. It was like a door that opened onto impregnable blackness.

Carys's breath became short and high in her throat. Gasping for air, she shoved the fur down on the bed, and carefully eased herself into a seated position. Her body, unlike her mind, had not forgotten her ill-conceived getaway; she felt as though she had been savagely beaten, and as she sat her head began to spin. Nauseous and hyper-ventilating, Carys hunched over her crossed legs, elbows on her knees and forehead in her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut against both the sun and the swirling room, tears pouring from the corners of her eyes.

_I don't know my name. I don't know who I am. I don't know how old I am. I don't know whether or not I have a family. I don't know where I am. I don't know where I'm from. I don't know how I got here. I don't know my name. I don't know my name. I don't know my name …_

____________

Bronwyn arrived at the infirmary early that day; Kay had risen with the sun, kissed her mouth and immediately set off to work. Feeling lonely in their hut all by her self, Bronwyn decided to do something useful with her time and tend to her patient; the Woad was the first patient Angharad had entrusted solely to her. Bronwyn preferred to believe the reason for this was that Angharad had faith in her skill, and not because the churlish Healer did not care either way if the Woad died.

She hesitated outside of the door to the Woad's room, twisting the fingers of her shaking hands. She would not pretend she was not afraid of the Woad; she had been born and raised in Britannia, and here at the fort, the threat of the Blue Demons was all too real, and their fearsome reputations ignited alarm in their wake.

Reluctantly, Bronwyn opened the door to the room, praying that the Woad still slumbered. However, as she peered cautiously into the room, she saw the Woad bent half double, rocking back and forth, fingers in her hair, sobbing quietly. Bronwyn instantly ceased thinking of her as just a Woad; the obvious vulnerability of this girl made Bronwyn's heart ache, and without a moment's hesitation, Bronwyn swept into the room, and sat beside her on the bed, gathering her in her arms as she had seen her sister Vanora do on so many occasions with one of her numerous children. "Shhhh," Bronwyn crooned, stroking the girl's back and thick black curls. Gently, Bronwyn cradled her, the girl's strong, tapering hands fisted in Bronwyn's skirt. _She is shaking like a leaf in a gale, poor thing._

Eventually, Carys quieted, her head tucked securely in the bend between the woman's thigh and her hip. She felt empty now, eerily calm. Snuffling pathetically, she was aware only of the woman's sweet voice humming a soothing lullaby, and her small fingers combing deftly through Carys's hair. Sluggishly, Carys pushed herself up in to a sitting position, swiping harshly at her cheeks to dispel the tears that remained there. Looking in to the woman's face, she recognized her as the woman from the night before, only she was much prettier when she was not constantly duplicating. Heaving a shuddering sigh, Carys offered a wretched excuse for a smile, sympathetically returned by the woman across from her.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Better, thank you," Carys replied, inhaling deeply.

Watching her, Bronwyn began to feel uneasy again. Most of the blue stain on her fair skin had been wiped away yesterday, but faint smudges adorned her hairline, and the ornate tattoos upon her clavicles (visible because the man's tunic she had been outfitted in was much too large) were a stark reminder of her origins. But her cheeks were blotchy, the tip of her nose red, and her eyes bloodshot. She looked so dejected Bronwyn could not help but soften towards her.

"What has you so upset?"

The Woad's slender, elegantly arched black brows drew together in to a frown, creating a small vertical line above her narrow, straight nose. Slowly, she shook her head from side to side. Bronwyn was sure that if she'd had any tears left, she would have started crying all over again. "I don't know my name," she said with a sigh and a half-hearted shrug.

Bronwyn's brows snapped together. Taken aback, she repeated, "You don't know your name?"

Carys shook her head. "I have no memories past last night." _What am I going to do? _With a sudden surge of hope, she asked, "Do _you_ know my name?"

Forlornly, Bronwyn shook her head. "No, I don't. I'm sorry."

The tender hope was quickly dispelled. After a moment's pause, she said, "Where am I?"

"Uxelodunum; a fort at Hadrian's Wall."

Once more, the looming gray dragon appeared in Carys's mind. Was this Hadrian's Wall? She shuddered. The image of the Wall gripped her heart in an icy claw. Instinctively, she felt that she didn't belong here, and so she asked, "How did I get here?"

After a moment's hesitation (Bronwyn had been eavesdropping outside the room on the conversation between Arthur and Angharad when Arthur had brought the girl to the infirmary), Bronwyn responded, choosing her words carefully, "All I know is that you were injured in the forest, and Arthur Castus bid me take care of you." She deliberately omitted that the injury Carys had sustained had been inflicted by one of Arthur's own men, that _he_ was to blame for the predicament she now found herself in.

The name Arthur Castus sent a spark of recognition through Carys; it flared briefly, generating as daunting an image as the Wall had done, and then was gone. _Who is Arthur Castus? _Nodding, Carys sighed again. "And what's your name?"

"I am Bronwyn," she said, confused as to why she could not remember; she had told the Woad her name last night, as well as where she was. She blamed stress. She would have to consult Angharad on the girl's memory loss, as Bronwyn had never before encountered such a condition. There was silence for a spell, in which Bronwyn studied the Woad, and the Woad picked at the sheets, glowering at them as if she wished them a painful demise. Uncomfortable with the quiet, Bronwyn said, "Are you hungry?"

Carys looked up at her without raising her head, considering. She still felt queasy, but part of that could be caused by hunger, she supposed. She nodded, and Bronwyn patted her knee, smiling.

"Alright," she said, standing, "I will return."

A quiet "thank you" followed her out.

Bronwyn hurried from the infirmary in to the bright light of the morning. It was still cool, but Bronwyn suspected that it would be a beautiful day. Perhaps the Woad might enjoy taking a stroll? Deciding to ask Angharad's permission before she did so, Bronwyn hurried through the streets towards the tavern. It was a good distance from the infirmary, but Vanora made the most delicious porridge, mixed with wild berries and drizzled with honey … Bronwyn's mouth began to water with just the thought of it. As she neared the tavern, Bronwyn needed only to follow the scent of Vanora's cooking to the kitchen, and she pushed open the door to find her sister there, crimson hair pulled back in to a thick braid that extended down to her waist, wearing an unflattering apron over her swollen belly (she was pregnant with her eleventh child). Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she looked to be in a foul disposition, but when her dark brown eyes alighted on Bronwyn, a bright smile crossed her face.

"Bronwyn!" she said, abandoning her dishes and crossing the kitchen towards her, and kissed her cheek. Wiping her forehead on her sleeve, she exhaled heavily. Leaning against the counter, she said, "How's your Woad? Gawain told us of your little chase last night."

Bronwyn nodded, popping a raspberry in to her mouth. "She's a strong one," Bronwyn told her, "I can't believe she could even stand, let alone run. She was so unsteady on her feet I thought she'd fall and crack her head open again."

"Well, good riddance," Vanora said, "One less of them savages is alright by me."

Bronwyn frowned, shaking her head, "No, Vanora, she seems alright."

"_Alright_?" Vanora repeated, flabbergasted. "You forget that it was one of _her_ kind that nearly severed poor Kay's leg? And it's _my_ man risking his life against those beasts almost every day? The _nerve_ of Arthur, bringing her back here. A pity Tristan didn't kill her." Bronwyn worried her lower lip between her teeth, her brow furrowed. "Oh, Gods, Bronwyn," Vanora scoffed, noting her uncertainty, "Don't tell me you actually _like_ her."

Bronwyn hesitated just a moment too long before replying, "Well … I … erm …"

Vanora groaned. Turning back to her chore, she said, "Really girl, I would expect this from Enid, but I thought _you_ had more sense than _that_."

"Vanora, it's not as simple as that. I walked in and she was _sobbing. _Crying as though her entire world had just been torn from her …" Trailing off, she scrutinized Vanora's face, and seeing her sister's expression soften, she elaborated. "She's lost her memory, Vanora. She doesn't even know her name."

Vanora sighed, her full mouth pursed into a tight line. Placing a hand on one round hip, Bronwyn spied the tell-tale signs of Vanora yielding, if only slightly. "Fine," she grumbled. "I suppose I ought to form my own opinion."

Feeling triumphant, Bronwyn nodded. She was doing a great deed; instilling tolerance. Years later, she would be remembered as the Bringer of Peace. Bronwyn smiled at the fanciful thought. How nice it would be, if she could accomplish something so profound simply by befriending one Woad, even if she didn't know she was a Woad.

With an aggrieved sigh, Vanora ladled porridge in to two bowls. "I suppose you ought to feed her, as well," she said, handing the dishes to Bronwyn. "Bring those back when you're done."

With a mocking salute, Bronwyn turned on her heel and marched out of the kitchen.

__________

While she had waited, Carys had worn a sizeable hole into the sheets, and was now twirling the loose threads between her fingertips. She glared unseeingly at the hole, her mind blank. She was startled from her daze by Bronwyn's voice; "I've brought you some porridge." Carys looked up, blinking her parched eyes rapidly, and the corner of her full mouth tilted up into a smile. She reached out and took the bowl from Bronwyn, who resumed her seat on the bed, scooting backward until her back was propped against the wall. She licked her lips as she looked in to her own bowl of porridge. "You don't mind if I eat with you, do you?" Carys shook her head; Bronwyn seemed pleasant, and Carys would welcome the company. Being alone with her voided mind was not something she was reveling in. "Eat," Bronwyn urged, feeling anxious as Carys watched her stir her porridge, silent as a shadow. "My sister makes the most delicious porridge."

Carys abruptly averted her eyes, and followed Bronwyn's example. Slowly, she stirred her porridge, watching the red and blue juices of the raspberries and blueberries mix in with the white of the porridge and the golden honey. Her stomach rumbled, and she licked her lips before closing them around the spoon. It _was_ delicious. It was creamy, and sweet, and the berries were potent and luscious.

They sat in what Carys perceived as a comfortable silence, but if she could have read Bronwyn's mind she would have been mistaken. The Healer watched her warily from the corner of her eye, feeling guilty that the Woad still put her on edge, even after she had wept bitterly in her arms; her tears were still damp on Bronwyn's skirt. She justified it with the rationalization that years of ingrained fear could not be dispelled in a day. She wondered how many battles had she been in? – how many men had she killed? – did she know the man or woman who had nearly separated Kay from his right leg? – did she know the man or woman who had killed Kay's brother Gareth? – or any of the other Knights whose absence was still felt, years later? And then Bronwyn began to wonder; the Woad looked not much older than Bronwyn and Vanora's youngest sister Enid, but how many of _her_ people had _she_ seen struck down by Rome's mighty hand? – how many losses had _she_ suffered? It was Rome's imposition on _her _land that had molded her into a warrior. Bronwyn realized then that _that_ would be the key to developing a relationship with the Woad; empathy.

"It's a lovely day outside," Bronwyn informed her, setting her empty bowl aside. "Would you be interested in going for a walk with me?"

Carys inhaled, rolling the porridge around her mouth and surveyed the tiny, nondescript room. She did not like to be in the room; the air was stale, the walls imposing and cruel. The window provided a tantalizing glimpse to the outside world, and as Carys peered outside, she felt excited at the proposition. Swallowing her porridge, Carys turned back to Bronwyn. "Yes," she said quietly, "Yes, I would like that very much."

Smiling, Bronwyn stood. "Good. I will speak with Angharad about doing so right now." And she left, leaving Carys to finish her breakfast in solitude.

Bronwyn found Angharad in the largest room in the infirmary; the store room. This room was where they kept their herbs and oils, their needles, thread for stitching, clean linens for the beds, and strips of cloth for bandaging, as well as more sinister instruments required for amputation, the removal of embedded arrowheads or diseased flesh, and the like. Angharad was hunched over the table, grinding herbs with her large mortar and pestle. A fire roared in the corner beneath a bubbling cauldron emitting a sickly sweet scent, and sweat sprang to Bronwyn's skin upon entering the sweltering room. Cautiously, Bronwyn approached her superior, loath to disturb her.

Before Bronwyn could open her mouth to speak, Angharad said, "What is it, Bronwyn?"

"Angharad, I was wondering if I might have a word with you?"

"As long as you make it fast, girl; I'm busy, can't you see?" She did not even glance at Bronwyn as she set down her pestle and ported the mortar over to the cauldron, tipping a fine greenish-yellow powder into the bubbling liquid.

"My patient has no memory."

"Amnesia; she must have suffered a severe concussion."

"Will her memories return?"

"With time, I'm sure."

"Is there anything I can do to help the process?"

"Do I look like a witch-doctor Bronwyn?" Standing beside a cauldron puffing bright green smoke, her black and silver hair unruly around her worn face, her cold blue eyes reflecting the fire ethereally, Bronwyn almost nodded. She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. "I don't know how to make someone's memories magically reappear. Now fuck off, I've got work to do."

Bronwyn turned to leave, but then remembered; "May I take her for a walk?"

"She's your patient, Bronwyn; you can do whatever you like with her. Best to ask Arthur though; it's his enemy wandering around Uxelodunum, not mine." Bronwyn nodded and left hastily, glad she caught Angharad in one of her better moods.

__________

Carys knelt on the bed, her body pressed against the wall, slender fingers gripping the frame of the window. Her eyes, uncomfortable in the light, were squinted against it, but she was willing to tolerate it so that she might see outside. It was a busy place, this Uxelodunum; people bustled everywhere beneath her window, carrying baskets, some empty, some laden heavily with food or cloth. Children played, laughing, darting through the streets like mice. One woman dragged a screaming, red-faced child through the streets by his arm, clearly vexed with him. She could see horses, milling about in a generous pasture behind their barn, and farmers harvesting their crops. A granary was given a central position in the field, and Carys could just make out the shining path of a river flowing a few miles away. She swung her gaze to the north, and her eyes skimmed over a forest; beautiful in its autumn splendor.

And then there it was; the Wall - a massive barrier separating this peaceful, cultivated and organized area from the feral forest and impressive mountains beyond. Her mouth tightened as she surveyed the length of it available for viewing, and something in her chest felt heavy and cold. The Wall's brutishness marred the lovely landscape, and she hated it at once, just as she hated the men swathed in scarlet cloaks swarming like insects on the Wall and within the fort. She did not comprehend the reason for this fierce loathing, but it burned within her all the same.

She heard Bronwyn enter, and turned to face her, sitting back onto her heels. Bronwyn's cheeks glowed red, and she was smiling. Carys returned her smile, but hers was a small one, as she did not feel particularly happy.

Bronwyn's fair brows raised towards her hairline, creating a small crinkle in her forehead. "Well," she said, pressing the palms of her small hands together, "Shall we go then?"

__________

Carys felt like a frail elder, the way she moved; hunched protectively over the wound on her torso and shuffling at a painfully slow pace so as not to aggravate her vertigo. Bronwyn did not appear to mind, however, and as if she sensed that Carys's pride was already wounded being forced to behave like an invalid, Bronwyn did not offer her arm. Instead, she simply strolled beside her, steady and prepared should Carys have need of her assistance.

Bronwyn took the path of least resistance to her home - that is to say, the path with the fewest people. She noticed immediately the blatant stares cast in Carys's direction the instant they exited the infirmary; some were fearful, scurrying away like mice; some were openly hostile, glaring darkly; but most were bewildered, gaping at the Woad as if caught in some incredulous tableau. She guided her through the mostly deserted alleys, and then quickly ushered her inside her home when they arrived.

Confused, Carys frowned as she stepped in to the hut. "Is that it?" She was weak, she would admit, but she was slightly offended that Bronwyn thought her incapable of walking for longer than fifteen minutes.

Bronwyn grinned. "No, no. I thought I might put you in some proper clothing."

Carys looked down at herself; she wore naught but an overlarge tunic, but even so, most of her long legs were exposed. She wrinkled her nose at the sight; her knees were bruised and scabbed, dried mud and dirt stained her skin, mingled with some sort of blue paint, and muting the stark black tattoos that adorned her legs - two wide, solid rings both above and below her left knee, the spaces between them etched with elaborate designs, and a long, spiralling line on the outside of her right leg, from mid calf to mid thigh. Frowning, she wondered momentarily at the significance of the designs, rubbing her palms furiously against the skin to clear away some of the dirt. They were beautiful, of that much she was certain. Briefly, her fingers traced the bold triangle that marked the base of the tattoo on her right leg, and its upside-down twin that marked the top.

Straightening, she grasped at the neckline of the tunic, correcting its position on her shoulders; it persisted in sliding down over one or the other, and Carys had to admit she was rather eager to be rid of it. Bronwyn had slipped away while she had been studying her limbs, and she took the opportunity to have a look around. The hut was cozy; not large enough to comfortably house more than one family, but not too small that it was oppressive. A nondescript kitchen lay off to her right, a water closet to her left, and a well-hewn table before her, a lovely hearth at its side. Cautiously, she stepped further in to the house, she noticed a seperate room, and heard Bronwyn's humming coming from within, and assumed it was her bedroom.

"Just one moment!" Bronwyn called, and feeling a little guilty for snooping, Carys jumped away from the bedroom.

"'s'alright," she said.

A dog barked, and then Carys heard masculine voices, approaching the house. A man laughed, and Carys turned towards the door just as it opened. In stepped a veritable giant of a man, with dark hair and merry eyes that instantly turned cold at the sight of her. His full, smiling mouth contracted in to a tight white line, and the expressions on the faces of the two men who followed him betrayed their bemusement. One of them was the mountain-lion man from last night, his golden locks glowing in the sunlight, his blue eyes wide as he stared at her.

Carys felt the air squeezed from her lungs as she surveyed the men before her; an image of a rabbit being cornered by wolves darted in to her mind. She saw Bronwyn emerge from her chamber, a fistful of clothing in each hand. She paled visibly, and Carys was immediately conscious of her rapidly accelerating pulse. "Shit," Bronwyn hissed, so quietly Carys was sure she was the only one who heard. Louder, she greeted the man hesitantly. "Kay!" Her voice was almost imperceptibly strangled, and she looked like a child who had just been caught doing something naughty.

"Bronwyn," the giant said, his green eyes flicking towards the woman. Gesturing rudely at Carys, and almost glaring at Bronwyn, he growled, "What is _this_ doing in my house?"

__________

A/N: Alright, kind of a short, uneventful chapter, but I wanted to get an update posted. The next chapter, I promise will be longer. I have a plan for this story, but it may develop slowly, but it will do so!

Thank you to gymgurl for reviewing. I am glad that you approve of the changes I've made, and I hope this chapter does not disappoint.

Yay! Next chapter should be up by the end of the week, hopefully.

Please review!


	3. Three

**Chapter Three**

Bronwyn groped for words, managing to squeeze out a few noises and stuttered syllables before closing her mouth again, her eyes wide and flitting between Carys and Kay. She imagined that she resembled a fish out of water, and was flushing quite heavily. "Well, I … erm … Kay … erm, this is …" She frowned, and then shook her head, frustrated with herself. Kay was her husband, not her Father, and she was not doing anything wrong by inviting the Woad in to _their_ house. The Woad was watching her, her eyebrows rose expectantly, wrestling with a smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. _How can she find this amusing?_ Bronwyn wondered, _Kay looks about ready to kill_. She huffed and infusing her voice with strength, she said, "This is my patient, Kay. I can't leave her locked up in the infirmary all day."

Carys glanced away from Bronwyn to Kay, who darkened the doorway with his large frame and foul temper. The dark haired man behind him leaned towards his companion, the mountain-lion man, and muttered something unintelligible. The mountain-lion man's brows contracted, but he did not respond.

"_This_ is your patient?" Kay said, stepping further in to the house. "You did not tell me she is a Woad."

_A Woad? _The word tugged at her heartstrings, and several nameless faces skimmed through her mind; all with wild hair, intense eyes, and their skin stained blue. The faces were replaced by scenes; trees, so many trees; mountains, a lake, the Wall … from the _other_ side; a battle, as seen from a high vantage point – red cloaks and gleaming armor being set upon by the blue people swaddled in animal skin, brandishing vicious weapons and yelling feral war cries. The scene vanished, and Carys shook her head slightly.

Looking affronted, Bronwyn said, "Why should _that_ matter?" She folded her arms over her chest.

Kay's dark eyebrows rocketed towards his hairline. "'_Why should that matter?'_ Bronwyn, she is a _Woad_. She is our _enemy._"

Carys frowned, and cleared her throat quietly. Obviously Kay had no qualms about discussing her openly and irately, regardless of the fact that she was standing not four feet away from him. Bronwyn's eyes flicked nervously to meet Carys's cool regard (a direct contrast to her hammering pulse), and she swallowed hard.

"Kay," she began, somewhat timidly, "I have a difficult time convincing myself that this woman is my enemy when she cannot even recall her own name."

Kay hesitated a moment, drawing himself up to his full height. His mouth was tight, his eyes narrowed, but other than that, nothing betrayed his inner discontent. When next he opened his mouth, his brow simultaneously furrowed, and Carys could see Bronwyn physically preparing herself for a verbal onslaught. Carys suddenly felt the urge to defend her, and before Kay could speak, she hastily interrupted.

"She is simply doing me a favor," Carys said. She cleared her throat gently when her voice shook, before continuing; "I _begged_ her to get me out of that room. I really left her no choice." All eyes were on her now, and Carys's temples burned. Was she _blushing_? Gods, _that_ would be embarrassing.

The tension was palpable, the pulse of the room audible. Bronwyn's eyes flitted nervously between Kay and Carys, whose eyes were locked; Kay's green eyes narrowed and crinkled at the corners, Carys's gray eyes peeled wide. Kay's mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, but instead of berating Carys, he rounded again on Bronwyn.

"And _what_ are you doing with my clothes?" He demanded, as if Carys had not even spoken.

Taken aback, Bronwyn blinked once, and looked down at her fistful of clothing dazedly. She looked back up at him, gesturing to Carys. "She can't very well wander around like _that_."

"She shouldn't be wandering around at all," the young dark-haired Knight mumbled. Carys glanced at him, just in time to see the lion-mountain man nudge Galahad in the ribs with his elbow.

"So you're giving her my clothes?"

"She wouldn't very likely fit in to _mine!_ She might as well just stay in that."

"My clothes won't fit her any better," Kay huffed.

Bronwyn folded her arms across her chest, sighing in exasperation. "Then what do you propose I do?"

"Give her Galahad's clothes." It was the mountain-lion man; his voice was low and gruff and his rosy cheeks flushed even brighter when all heads turned towards him. The young dark-haired Knight - Galahad, Carys assumed, looked perfectly indignant at having his clothing redistributed without his consent. He spluttered and grumbled unintelligibly, until Bronwyn and Kay both conceded, having measured him shrewdly with their eyes.

"That might work," Bronwyn said with a shrug, and Kay nodded slowly, regarding Carys with a sidelong view.

__________

Galahad grumbled to the lion-mountain man – Gawain, as Carys had discovered listening to the conversation of the others – the whole way back to his chambers. Not only was he being forced to relinquish some garments to a _Woad_, but it took exponentially longer to reach the barracks than usual, hindered as they were by Carys's hobbling pace.

The fort was huge, but well organized; the residential area was tucked neatly in to three-quarters of the fort. This district included the citizens' homes, a large public bathhouse, a marketplace, a tavern. There were tanners, seamstresses, butchers, bakers, a Church and various other wonders that made Carys appreciate their slow meandering to aide in her gawking. She wondered at how so many people could be comfortable living in such close proximity to one another.

The military section of the fort was drastically different from the residential one; the buildings were large, and stone and formidable. There were three massive barracks side-by-side, and a large training arena in front of them. A smaller barracks lay opposite those, across the training arena, and it was in this direction that Galahad led them. There was an armory, and a blacksmith, and a substantial stable with its front doors thrown wide. A farrier's workshop lay to its north side, and it was pressed against the wall of the fort on its south side. Its rear end opened on to a generous expanse of emerald pasture, complete with a small copse of trees and a shining pool of water.

This was where Kay went to after bidding farewell to his wife. He whispered to Gawain and Galahad, glowering at Carys from the corner of his eye, but did not glance back at her as he departed to the stable. Carys watched his receding back just long enough to note that he walked with a slight limp.

"Are you alright?" Bronwyn asked, as she fell in step with Carys.

Breathlessly, Carys replied, "Yes, I'm fine." A lie; she did not feel well in any sense of the word. Her chest felt heavy, her breath strangled in her throat. Her heart was beating a painful tattoo against her ribs, and her head was swirling. A little roughly, Bronwyn seized Carys by the chin and forced her to look in to her eyes. Hunched over as she was, Carys felt a little like a child, and Bronwyn like her fussing Mother.

"You're a terrible liar," she accused. The Woad looked about ready to drop dead at any moment. Her skin was pale, sallow beneath streaks of dirt and blue paint. Her gray eyes were over-bright, red-rimmed and heavily shadowed. The bruise on her temple stood out against her skin like a grotesque pool of some monster's vomit in the snow, and her black hair hung lank and dull around her torso.

Carys swatted Bronwyn's hand away. "I'm fine," she repeated. "Just tired, is all."

"Let's get you a bath," Bronwyn said, and immediately Carys's face brightened, if only slightly. She turned towards Gawain and Galahad, who had paused in the doorway of the smaller barracks, waiting for them. "Gawain," she said, approaching them. She had Carys by the elbow, towing her along behind her. "Can we use the bathhouse here?"

Gawain and Galahad exchanged a glance, and then he shrugged. "I suppose so," he said. Beaming, Bronwyn patted his shoulder and dragged Carys past them.

"Thank you, Gawain," she said. Carys murmured the same.

"What about the clothes?" Galahad called after them.

"Can you bring them to us?" Bronwyn asked sweetly, but before Galahad could respond with more than just an exasperated shrug, she said, "Thanks, dear!"

Bronwyn led Carys down to the end of the hall, to a set of double doors, one of which she opened just a crack, peering inside cautiously. After assuring that it was abandoned, Bronwyn slipped in to the room and beckoned Carys to follow. The heat that assaulted her was rather overwhelming, and Carys had to steady herself against the wall before following Bronwyn deeper in to the bathhouse. It was not overly large, but the waters steamed and churned and welcomed her in to their clean, gently perfumed depths.

Bronwyn awaited her at the farthest corner of the rectangular pool, and apparently eager, the Woad had already stripped off and discarded the hideous tunic she wore. Gods, she was skinny. Her ribs and pelvis bones jutted, creating a sort of bowl for her hollow stomach. Her clavicles protruded out of her chest, only slightly less protuberant than her small, round breasts. Her elbows and knees were lumpy and ugly. Bronwyn supposed that the reason she could see the Woad's muscles sliding so smoothly beneath her skin was because there was nothing else on her body _but_ bones and muscle. Bronwyn vowed to fatten her up; she could see her spine wriggling as she eased herself into the bath beneath the gorgeously ornate tattooed tree that occupied the majority of her lower back.

Carys sighed in pleasure as the water enveloped her. _So warm_. She slowly dipped below the surface, reveling in the warmth, and when she bobbed back up Bronwyn instantly attacked her hair with a rich, sweet-smelling soap, combing it deftly and thoroughly with her fingers. Bronwyn handed Carys the soap, and Carys scrubbed her face and her body, carefully avoiding her bruises and stitches. Blue paint, dirt and other assorted grime floated in the water around her, and Carys sidled away from the soiled water, her nose crinkled. Bronwyn handed her a rough woolen rag with which to clean her teeth, and she obeyed diligently, only after being assured that it was fresh.

As Bronwyn was massaging a thick lotion in to Carys's hair, Gawain entered the bathhouse. He had a pair of gray breeches and a dark green tunic slung over one shoulder and a pair of well-worn dark leather boots clutched in his left hand. He came towards them and assumed a seat on the bench that lined the wall.

"Thank you," Bronwyn said.

"No problem," Gawain said. "Galahad's a little sore about it."

"He'll recover, I'm sure," Bronwyn replied caustically. Gawain nodded soberly, and Bronwyn said, "Where did he get off to, anyway?"

"Left with Arthur," Gawain told her. "He asked me to stay with you two while you're out."

"Well, that was nice of him." Gawain grunted, and then all was silent.

Carys listened silently, scraping absentmindedly beneath her fingernails. Gawain had a rather pleasant voice, she decided; it was deep and smooth, with a tinge of some foreign accent. He reminded her of someone, and she strained to think of who it could be. No name, and no face jumped to mind, and she sighed resignedly.

"What's the matter?" Bronwyn asked, touching her shoulder lightly.

Carys turned to look into her face and said, "oh, nothing…" Briefly, her eyes met Gawain's, before she looked back to Bronwyn. "Will my memory return?"

Bronwyn frowned, then took up the soap and began scrubbing at a blue streak down Carys's face that had been overlooked. She thought carefully about how to answer; the Woad was reminiscent of a child, her ash-gray eyes wide and round in her pale face. "Yes, it will," she said decisively.

"You can't remember anything?" This came from Gawain, who was now leaned towards Carys, his elbows on his knees. Carys shook her head woefully, and Gawain nodded gravely; "How strange."

Carys pursed her full mouth and nodded. "It is, isn't it? Annoying, too."

Bronwyn grinned and the corners of Gawain's mouth twitched upwards behind his ruddy-gold beard. Bronwyn opened her mouth to speak, but in the same instant, the double doors were shoved open and in strode a lovely sprite of a young woman with shining golden hair piled elegantly on the crown of her head. Her face was round and rosy, her nose petite and sloped gently upward at the end. Her mouth was small, but her lips were full, and she had the brightest blue eyes, reminiscent of the sky.

Gawain shot instantly to his feet, and Carys could not decide which was more abrupt; this new woman's ostentatious entrance or Gawain's hasty movement. Carys's eyes flicked to Gawain, who was standing at attention, his eyes riveted on the blonde, and then slid towards the newcomer, and was forced to wrestle a smile back into place. She was standing stock-still now, the confidence of her entry waning visibly. Her blue eyes were peeled wide, and a flush was creeping its way to her soft round cheeks.

"Enid," Gawain said, clearing his throat.

"Hello, Gawain," the girl responded.

"How are you?"

"I'm very well, thank you," Enid replied softly, "How are you?"

They seemed utterly unaware that Carys and Bronwyn were third-parties to this painfully formal greeting, until Bronwyn snickered indiscreetly in Carys's ear, and Carys could not help but grin widely in response. Enid's cornflower blue eyes snapped in their direction, filled with aggravation, and Carys immediately folded her lips in to disguise her smile. The blonde's face was purpling rather nicely, and sheepishly she glanced back at Gawain before stalking towards Bronwyn and Carys.

Slowly, Gawain resumed his seat, and Carys noticed his eyes carefully following Enid as she sank down onto her haunches next to Bronwyn. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, studying the tiles on the floor doggedly before raising her bright gaze to Bronwyn.

Her voice was excited, though still somewhat breathless as she said, "So, this is your Woad?" Bronwyn nodded, and Carys smiled at Enid. "Gods, she's – I mean, _you're_ so _pretty_."

Looking at her, Bronwyn could agree. Clean now, with a hint of a flush from the heat in her cheeks, the Woad did look _much_ better, but she was beautiful in a very ... unique (_odd_) way; her cheekbones were high and her jaw squared, on par with the angle of her cheekbones, hollowing out her cheeks. Her nose was impeccably straight; there was no becoming slope to it as Enid's had. What's more, she had no natural flush to her skin. Even her lips were nearly flesh tone, disguising their fullness. Her ivory skin, slate gray eyes and pitch black hair lent her face an odd sense of uniformity. She looked more like a charcoal-drawing rendition of a Woad than flesh.

"Thank you," Carys said, a little uncertain, her black brows crinkling together.

"How exciting is this?" Enid gushed. "I've never met a Woad before!"

"Never will again," Gawain said gruffly, and all three women turned instantly to fix him with puzzled stares. He was absently whittling the handle of a broom with a small knife, and with raised eyebrows he was quick to clarify his meaning; "Not on such friendly terms, I mean."

"And so," Enid said, "I must enjoy it now!" She held out one dainty hand; "I'm Enid. I know that you've lost your memory, so … I'll think of something to call you." She giggled breathily, a little nervously. She had deep dimples beside her mouth when she smiled. Carys took her hand, at once enjoying Enid's presence and recoiling from her exuberance. "Wow! Bronwyn look at her tattoos!" Two ornate bands wound their way around her arm, one above and one below her elbow, not unlike those on her left leg.

"She has far more than that," Bronwyn told her.

Wide-eyed, Enid stared at Carys. "Truly? Wow. What does it feel like?"

"I don't remember," Carys said flatly.

Gawain let out a bark of a laugh, and quickly choked it back, while Enid flushed and said, "Oh, Gods, I am a _dunce_. I completely forgot."

__________

Carys paddled around in the pool for a bit longer while Bronwyn, Gawain and Enid chatted idly. Enid was Bronwyn's sister, and as soon as she had been made aware of this fact, Carys could see the resemblance; their mouths were identical, their round cheeks and the shape, though not the color, of their eyes and eyebrows. Bronwyn's nose was just slightly wider, and Enid's chin was somewhat sharper, and Bronwyn's hair was much redder than Enid's straw-colored locks. And Gawain was clearly smitten with the young woman; his eyes never left her and he flushed gently when she looked his way. It was amusing to see this fearsome Knight at the mercy of a girl who would be unable to lift his sword.

After a while, Bronwyn ushered Carys out of the bath. Enid marveled over Carys's tattoos, and Gawain politely averted his gaze. Galahad's clothes fit her all right; she was relatively the same height as he was, and evidently he was much leaner than the other Knights, for the garments were only slightly baggy on her slim frame. Bronwyn coerced Gawain into relinquishing his wide leather belt until such time as they could find something else to keep Carys's breeches up around her hips, or lack thereof, Carys thought forlornly.

The light outside made Carys's head throb, and the cold air elicited goose flesh upon her skin. Bronwyn was keen on taking Carys back to the infirmary, but Carys was adamantly against it. She pleaded for Bronwyn to take her to the stables, and then afterwards, Bronwyn supposed, they could all go to the tavern for the noon meal.

Carys's muscles felt much less tense, and she did her best to stand erect in spite of the stitches tugging at the sensitive, bruised skin surrounding the wound in her abdomen and back. _A bastard, he was, whoever shot me._

The stable was warm, and the air was thick with the scent of horse, hay and shit. Not entirely unpleasant, Carys admitted to herself. Stable hands bustled to and fro ensuring that every single one of the multitude of horses were properly tended; well-fed, with fresh water and clean bedding.

Gawain nodded a greeting to Galahad, who stood beside a stall housing a gleaming white stallion with a tall man with vibrant green eyes and curling chestnut hair. The latter quickly mouthed a few words to Galahad, and then made his way over to their little group, advancing immediately upon Carys. He stood slightly too close to her than she was particularly at ease with, but she did not recoil.

"I am Arthur Castus," he told her succinctly, and he held out his hand for her to shake.

She was a little hesitant in taking his hand, but managed to return his firm grip as she said, "I am told you saved me in the forest?" Almost meekly, he nodded. "Thank you."

He nodded again, and released her hand. Her long fingers were cold, her palms calloused nearly as much as his were. She looked exactly like a Woad should; tall, lean, wild hair and piercing eyes, tattooed, pale skin and sculpted features. What a perfectly striking creature. "And what is your name?" He prompted when she did not offer.

Her pale lips tipped upward slightly, even as she blinked rapidly to dispel threatening tears. "I don't know," she said quietly, shrugging to feign nonchalance.

Bronwyn quickly intervened to alleviate Carys's distress; "She has a condition called amnesia, Arthur," she said, and when Arthur's brow furrowed, she elaborated. "She's lost her memory."

Slowly, Arthur nodded. "Ah." Turning back to Carys, he commended her on handling her condition so well, and ensured that she was aware that she was welcome here as long as she needed. She could not help but watch him leave, with mixed emotions. Something within her revered him, while cautioning her against him, but for the moment, she rather liked him.

They visited Gawain's horse; a tall mare with a black mane and tail, long black legs and a mottled gray and white body called Iskra. Gawain and Enid spoke in low, confidential tones while Carys stroked Iskra's neck, Bronwyn at her side, pretending not to eavesdrop on the pair. Gawain was promising Enid a ride when the weather was good, and Enid was blushing and smiling, just imagining their bodies so close together.

That was where Kay found them, and he made a point of acknowledging Carys's presence with a curt nod. She could tell it was painful for him. "Gawain!" he boomed, and both he and Enid started rather violently. "Why don't you just marry that girl, already? How long have you been pining for her?"

Gawain glowered, blushing viciously, and Enid had bowed her head into her hands to conceal her own flaming cheeks. Choking on laughter, Bronwyn elbowed Kay in the gut. "Kay!" she chastised, even as he tugged her away from the group. Carys's eyes surveyed Enid and Gawain, who were giggling uncomfortably, red to their hairlines. Carys smiled, and then left them to their courting, tuning them out and crooning softly to Iskra.

Meanwhile, Kay was desperately attempting to talk some sense into his wife. Since the beginning of his military life in Britain, he had always possessed a sense of empathy for the Woads; they were not all that different, after all, but he could not simply forget that they were enemies. He had killed many Woads, without a second thought ... it was kill or be killed on this cursed island. And he would be a fool to think that the Woads saw the Sarmatian Knights as anything more than those in the service of Rome, and Rome was their enemy ... their similarities made no difference in this war.

"Bronwyn, what happens when she regains her memory?"

Bronwyn sighed, rolling her eyes and shrugging. "I don't know, Kay. She seems like a decent person; the days she has here until her memory returns won't be erased when it does."

"She's a Woad - "

"Kay! I _know_ she's a Woad. There's no shortage of reminders!"

Kay took her by the shoulders, and squatted low so he could stare directly into her eyes. She was frustrated, he could tell; her hazel eyes became more gold when she was angry. "Bronwyn, just listen to me. She's a Woad, Bronwyn. She has had an entire lifetime of hating Rome. When her memory returns, the time she has here will not be enough to change how she truly feels ... how she's always felt. What happens then?"

Bronwyn opened her mouth, and closed it again, floundering like a fish out of water. She had no retort for that; Kay was right. _What happens then?_

__________

**A/N : Blah, boring chapter. Sorry guys! But, it's an update nonetheless. Thank you to Frieda for reviewing the last chapter! I'm glad you like my story so far. **

**I hope you all like this chapter. I promise it will get better. =) **

**Please review! I love your words of encouragement and constructive criticism. **


	4. Four

**A/N : I made some changes to Chapter Three, just so you all know. Nothing too serious, I just added a few more paragraphs at the end. Thank you to Black Cat Ink and Frieda for reviewing. I'm glad you both like it! Frieda, I promise it will get more exciting … it's just developing rather slowly, I'm afraid. And no, Bronwyn's name isn't inspired by LotR; I just Google'd ancient Celtic names and low chen australia**** has a big list of names. I just picked one I liked. =) **

**I hope you all like this chapter! Please review; sorry for the delay.**

**Chapter Four**

Their group of five – Carys, Bronwyn, Enid, Gawain and Kay, left the stable only when Enid began to complain of hunger. No one could resist her huge blue eyes, pleading and round, and Carys brought up the lonely rear as their party made their way through the compound to the tavern. Enid and Gawain walked just ahead of Carys, standing a respectful distance apart, but every now and then their hands would touch or their shoulders would bump. Carys was sure it was not nearly as accidental as they made it seem.

Kay and Bronwyn led the way, their hands loosely linked but not speaking. Bronwyn looked pensive, and Kay looked somber. Carys could not help but wonder what had been said earlier, in their private conversation, to strike them both dumb.

Now that it was later in the day, she was forced to cling close to Enid and Gawain, lest she lose them in the crowd. There were people _everywhere_. She felt uncomfortable in such a large crowd but for the most part, she went unnoticed. Carys was grateful for their general oversight; when someone did catch a glimpse of her, they regarded her with such hostility she would have feared for her life if she had been alone. There was one woman who, upon viewing her, hastily herded her milling flock of children, gaping all the while, and hurried in the opposite direction.

Seeing this, Enid and Gawain fell back in step with Carys, flanking her protectively. "Don't worry," Enid said, taking her hand, "They wouldn't dare harm you."

"Not with me around," Gawain added, and he puffed out his chest and flexed his arms before his torso in a display of masculinity. Both Carys and Enid laughed, while Gawain continued to walk stiffly, drawn up to his full height and muscles flexed, a faux-fearsome glower on his handsome face. He enjoyed making people laugh, Enid especially, and the Woad seemed nice enough. He did not judge according to race, anyway. He did not care if a person was a Sarmatian, a Woad, a Briton, a Roman, a Gaul … they were all people. It was a person's disposition that was the deciding factor for Gawain, and he had worked very hard to keep an open mind during his years of service to Rome.

In truth, Carys hadn't really been all that afraid; she knew that she would be protected, but it was still nice to hear their concern. Carys glanced at Enid, and for a moment, it was not Enid's face she saw, but someone different entirely; someone slightly taller than Enid, with golden-brown hair instead of blonde, and gray-green eyes instead of blue. Her bones were sharper, but she still had rosy, round cheeks and a full smiling mouth. Before her name could materialize in Carys's mind, her face disappeared, leaving only Enid, and Carys quickly averted her gaze from staring at her.

They had lost sight of Bronwyn and Kay in the fray, but Enid clutched Carys's hand tighter and maneuvered them easily through the crowd until they reached a large tavern, its courtyard lined with tables and bursting with patrons, mostly men swathed in crimson cloaks with gleaming armor.

Without her consent, Carys's feet stopped dead in their tracks, and she went rigid, cringing inside and seething. Something inside of her cried hatred at these men. Enid turned back to her. "Hey," she murmured, "What's wrong?"

"It's the Romans," Gawain supplied, when Carys did not respond. He shoved her gently from behind. "Ignore them," he told her. Doggedly, she fixated her gaze on Enid's shoulder, and allowed herself to be led away, moving stiffly, as though her knees had forgotten how to bend.

Enid took them to a table at the far side of the courtyard, where Bronwyn and Kay awaited them. A petite woman, heavily laden with child, with a vibrant crimson braid pulled over one shoulder, stood talking with them, one hand propped on her full hip while she gesticulated animatedly with the other. A stocky bald man with a large tattoo on his bicep sat on the edge of the bench nearest her, caressing her bulging belly. To his left sat a man with a bald head, bright blue eyes and a scar extending from his forehead to his cheek, over his left eye. Was there still sight in that eye? When he looked at her, Carys could see that there was, and she wondered at his luck.

To that man's left sat Arthur, and then a roguish-looking man with pitch black hair and seduction in his deep brown eyes, and then Galahad. Enid assumed the seat next to Bronwyn, and Gawain beside her. When Carys sat, there was a horrifying beat of silence in which everyone stared at her. She could feel herself blushing, and she pursed her mouth into a circle, slouching meekly in her seat. Self-consciously, she ducked her head before wiping at her mouth and cheeks. Was there something on her face? Why were they _staring_ at her like that?

Gradually, the conversation picked up again, initiated by Gawain, sympathetic to her discomfort. She smiled up at him, and he winked at her. Shortly thereafter, the pregnant red-headed woman bustled away towards the kitchen, and though she had no place in the conversation of these people, Carys could not help but listen. In doing so, she learned the names of the men; there was Bors, the burly bald man, who spoke too loud and slurred his words drunkenly, in spite of the fact that it was barely past noon. He also appeared to speak for the silent giant at his side, whose name was Dagonet. The man beside Arthur was called Lancelot, and he persisted in peering at her over his cup of mead or wine or whatever it was that he was drinking, a rakish glint in his eyes. Something about him gave Carys the distinct impression that Lancelot was quite the libertine and she purposefully avoided his gaze. They bantered and teased and debated and laughed, and it was all very raucous and crude and amusing.

Vanora brought steaming apple cider and sweet watered wine and bowls of hearty stew for everyone, and she tried her hardest not to glower at the Woad as she served her. Bronwyn was right; there was a tangible sense of vulnerability about her. She was quiet and polite and unobtrusive and Vanora was having a difficult time maintaining her hate.

Carys hunched over her bowl of stew and eagerly spooned a bit into her mouth; it was delicious, rich and thick, and the meat and the vegetables were tender and flavorful. The cider was hot, burning her tongue, but it was sweet and soothing as it slid down her throat and pooled in her belly, radiating warmth throughout her body.

A child squealed, her shrill voice penetrating the din of the tavern, and Bors bellowed, "Tristan!" and another Knight joined the party. He was a tall, lean man who moved with a feline grace, even while holding the squirming, giggling child in his arms. The man had a dark mop of hair, haphazardly braided in random places, profound golden eyes and tattoos on his cheeks. The little girl was a tiny thing, with dark brown hair, glowing brown eyes and a very dirty face.

"Da!" the girl wailed, "Let me go!" The man was glaring menacingly at Carys, still as a statue and his arms like marble around his wriggling daughter. His full mouth, framed by his dark beard, was pressed into a firm white line, and a muscle ticked in his clenching jaw. Carys swallowed hard, hard-pressed to keep from outright cowering in his wake. Directly contrasting her Father, the little girl's eyes flew wide, and she froze instantly when she caught sight of Carys. A broad grin spread slowly across her face, and she twisted in his stiff grasp to look into his face while she pointed excitedly at Carys. "Da! Da, look! It's a Woad! A _real-live_ Woad! Da, can we sit by her? _Please_, Da, _please_?"

Carys could not help but smile at the girl's enthusiasm, and the other Knights' laughter echoed around her. "Tristan, sit down man!" Bors boomed, "Stop standing there staring like an idiot."

Tristan's eyes flicked to Bors; the man's voice could wake the dead, honestly. And while Tristan might not have been dead, he had certainly been in some sort of daze over the Woad, though _entranced_ was definitely not the right word. Obviously she had pulled through the night, in spite of her little evening romp through the streets. And she _wasn't _on a murderous rampage through the fort … perhaps Arthur had not been a complete fool in bringing her here. Slowly, he assumed the seat next to her on the bench, placing his daughter between them.

"I'm Imogen!" the little girl said brightly, staring into Carys's face, bobbing energetically in her seat.

"Imogen?" Carys repeated, smiling down at the little sprite, "That's a lovely name."

"What's your name?"

Carys's smile faltered, but she was careful to paste it back in place before the girl's Father, watching them intently, noticed anything was amiss. It was a futile effort; Tristan noticed everything. "I don't know," she said softly, as if she were telling the girl a secret. Imogen took great delight in this, and made a point of responding in hushed tones to the Woad. Tristan had to strain his ears over the racket caused by the tavern patrons in order to hear what they were saying. _She doesn't know her own name? - _he mused. Obviously that bump on her head had done far more than give her a nasty cut and bruise.

"You don't know your name?" she said, bewildered, and Carys shook her head. "Well, that's awful."

Carys endeavored to match Imogen's grave tone when she replied, "I think so, yeah."

"So you don't know how old you are?" Carys shook her head again, and a thick black curl worked its way over her thin shoulder. Idly, Imogen took it in her hand. "I'm five summers," Imogen said matter-of-factly, twirling the curl in her small fingers, and Carys smiled, holding up her left hand with its fingers spread deliberately apart.

"Five? Wow. I do not think I am as old as that," Carys said teasingly, and Imogen giggled. Even Tristan could not suppress the ghost of a smile that touched his mouth. Imogen was extremely friendly, irritatingly so sometimes, but this Woad did not seem to mind. She was actually _talking_ to her; even Tristan could not manage that, some days.

"So why don't you know anything?" Imogen asked bluntly.

Chuckling, Carys replied, "Bronwyn says I have amnesia."

"_Amnesia?"_

Carys nodded solemnly. "That's right. I lost my memory when I hit my head." She lifted her heavy hair, revealing the dark stitches in her temple. Imogen scrunched up her pretty little face, studying it closely. _Lost her memory?_ Tristan shifted in his seat. Was that _guilt_ niggling in his gut? Nonsense; he never felt guilt wounding an enemy. Then again, he'd never had to sit at dinner with one, either.

"So you don't know who your mum or da is?" Carys shook her head again. "I don't know my mum either," Imogen said. Tristan bristled, and sat up a little straighter. Carys's eyes slid from Imogen, who was shoveling a heaping spoonful of stew brought by Vanora into her mouth, to Tristan. He was clenching his jaw again, and was he paler than before? He wasn't looking at them, but she knew he was listening. Imogen either could not sense her father's sudden uneasiness, or she simply did not care, for she kept right on talking through her mouthful of stew. "She died, when I was a baby."

"I'm very sorry," Carys murmured, but she was still watching Tristan, gauging his reaction. He said nothing, but his head bowed and he blinked for longer than was normal.

Imogen gave an exaggerated shrug. "'s'alright. I got my da." Tristan ruffled Imogen's hair, and the girl grumbled, shoving his large hand away.

"You're filthy, girl," Tristan said, taking her chin in his hand and jerking her face towards him. Her eyes stayed locked on the stew, and she even attempted to slurp some of it into her mouth, succeeding only in drizzling it onto her skirt. "What were you doing all morning, eh?"

"Well, me and Gilly and Eight and Nine were playing in the field, and the field's real muddy, Da," she said matter-of-factly. Carys smiled at her tone, so much more mature than her five summers. As if on cue, Vanora tossed a moist rag on the table beside Tristan, and he ruthlessly wiped Imogen's face and little hands.

Carys took the opportunity to finish her cider, though it had cooled significantly, but could not bring herself to finish her stew. Her stomach had begun to quiver, and she could feel the blood draining from her head. Her vertigo, ignoring her for the past few hours, had returned in force, as though it had been accumulating its strength. Breathing deeply, Carys propped her elbow up on the table and rested her head heavily in her hand. She stared down at the table, her eyes following the spiraling pattern in the roughly-hewn wood. Not surprisingly, the twirls in the table made her even dizzier, and quickly, she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Are you okay, Woad?" Imogen inquired gently, tugging at Carys's sleeve, and Tristan noticed immediately that, if possible, she had become even paler than she was before, perhaps even a little green. When her eyes slid open, they were suddenly bloodshot and rather glazed, but she managed a half-hearted smile and a slow nod. "You don't look so good," the child said dubiously.

"I don't feel so good," the Woad answered, laying her cheek down onto her bicep, her forearm flopped over her head. Imogen scooted closer to the Woad, much to Tristan's dismay, and rubbed her back soothingly. The Woad's eyes drifted closed, and the corners of her mouth twitched upwards. He could see her pulse jumping in her smooth white throat, and her nostrils flared slightly as she inhaled. Was she _asleep_? He'd seen Bors passed out drunk on this very table multiple times, but never before had he seen someone willingly drift off, especially with the _noise._

Moments later, Bronwyn appeared at the Woad's side, gently shaking her. The Woad started upright, blinking rapidly, and Bronwyn chuckled. "Are you alright?"

"Did I fall _asleep_?" Grinning, Bronwyn nodded, and the Woad proceeded to flush gently, giggling uncomfortably. "Wow," she said, rubbing her eyes with her fists.

"I shouldn't have kept you out so long," Bronwyn told her, berating herself. She took the Woad's arm, and helped her up. "Come, let's get you back to bed."

"But I don't want to go back there…" Carys whined.

"You can come back out later," Bronwyn replied, in a motherly tone, "but right now you need some sleep."

"Da, can I go with her? _Please, _da, _please?_" Imogen begged as Carys struggled to her feet, but Tristan shook his head.

"No," he growled, and his tone silenced her pleas. She glowered, pouting, her scrawny arms folded over her chest.

"Bye, Woad," Imogen said grumpily, and Carys smoothed her hair affectionately.

The journey back to the infirmary was a long one; Carys being up and about for the entire morning had taken more of a toll on her than she had expected it to. She shuffled, weary and wheezing, beside Bronwyn and by the time they reached the infirmary, she was leaning so heavily on Bronwyn that she was practically carrying her. Kay had elected to stay behind at the tavern, but Bronwyn, struggling to support the lanky form of the Woad, was now sorely wishing he had come, so that he might carry her. He'd certainly have an easier time of it.

"Come on now, just a little further," Bronwyn said, encouraging not only the Woad, but herself as well. The infirmary came into view, and then they were shuffling down the hall, and then Carys was crawling into bed, asleep before her head even hit the pillow.

Outside the Woad's room, Bronwyn sighed and propped herself up against the wall, wiping her clammy forehead with the back of her hand. Her heart was racing with the exertion of dragging the Woad back to the infirmary. She shouldn't have kept the poor girl out for so long. Once, quite a few years ago now, Bronwyn had fallen off of her Father's horse and suffered a concussion, albeit a minor one, and to this day she could still remember how terrible it was. She could not imagine the Woad's affliction, and decided that she would not overexert her again.

"So, how is she?" Bronwyn started; Angharad was truly a witch, appearing from nowhere with barely a sound.

Clutching her heart, Brownyn chuckled. "Oh! You scared me." Angharad did not respond or react, besides a miniscule tightening of her already tight mouth. Bronwyn cleared her throat uncertainly, and shrugged. "She seems fine. A little _too_ fine, if you ask me." Angharad tilted her head slightly, to prompt an explanation. Bronwyn hurried to oblige; "She seems very _calm_ about everything. She cried earlier but other than that seems completely unfazed."

"She's likely in shock," Angharad said flatly. Bronwyn nodded slowly. _Possible, _she thought_. _"Let me know when she wakes; I'd like to speak with her."

"Of course," she said, and watched Angharad's receding back until she disappeared into her work room, frowning. Angharad had seemed so callous when speaking of the Woad earlier; what had changed? _And_ she wanted to speak to her? Angharad could barely spare her own children a few moments of her time, let alone any of her patients. With one last sigh and a shrug of her shoulders, Bronwyn left the infirmary. She could not pretend to understand the innermost workings of the mysterious Angharad.

* * *

Getting over the Wall had been easy; Owain had done it many times, and the Romans were predictable – always changing sentries at the same time, rarely patrolling so close to the forest he had used for cover. But now, Owain stood just within the tree line on the crest of a hill, staring down at the massive fort, anxiety bubbling in his chest. How was he ever going to locate Carys in that maze of stone? He would surely get caught if he attempted to sneak in, but she might never come out if he did not. And she must come out. Which meant that one way or another, Owain had to get in.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ground together. He could not sit around watching the fort and waiting; this rescue had to be perfectly timed, perfectly planned, or he would risk death or imprisonment, but not knowing whether Carys was alive or dead was driving him mad. He had to know. That, at least, would be relatively easy to discover…

* * *

A/N: Thank you to Black Cat Ink, Frieda and Mahogony Rose for reviewing the last chapter! I'm really glad you all like it, and I hope you like this chapter! I'll try and update more frequently; I've been neglecting poor Carys.

Let me know what you think of this chapter! xx.


	5. Five

Chapter Five

Carys woke with the sun the next morning, and felt wonderfully refreshed after her embarassing meltdown of the day before. She sat up slowly in bed; someone, presumably Bronwyn, had undressed her and put a clean white tunic with long sleeves that came down to her knees. She could just imagine how that went ... her full lips quirked upward into a smile at the awkward mental picture.

She eased onto her knees to peer out of the window; the wan sunlight bathed her face –

"Hi, Woad!"

With a yowl, Carys leaped out of bed with surprising agility, and pressed herself flat against the wall on the opposite side of the room from a wide-eyed little girl with soft brown hair that was seated unpretentiously on the chair in the corner.

"Imogen!" Carys gasped, "You scared the fucking life out of me! What are you doing here? Where is your Father?"

Imogen giggled, typical of a child confronted with bad language, completely oblivious to Carys's sharp tone. "I came to take you to breakfast. Aren't you hungry?"

Carys concentrated on her stomach, and it rumbled slightly. Then she shook her head; that wasn't the point! "Where's your Father?" she asked again.

Imogen's face collapsed in on itself in a sulky frown. "Out riding, like usual. He never has any time for me."

"That's not true," Carys protested, but for some reason she felt a sense of amity with the girl. "You were with him yesterday."

Imogen scoffed and rolled her eyes, standing up, giving off the air of a much older person. "Yesterday. One day out of the whole week he had any time for me." Her mouth pulled sharply downward into a frown, and Carys couldn't help but mimic it. Poor child.

There was a moment of silence, in which Imogen glowered at a stain on the floor as if she would like to set it on fire, and Carys debated whether or not she should go wandering about the fort with just the child for company. She remembered the feeling of having all of those people staring yesterday; would she be in danger without Bronwyn and the others? The taciturn Knight Tristan surely wouldn't hesitate to skin her alive if anything happened to his daughter, and Carys felt that she would deserve it.

Her stomach growled again, louder this time, and Imogen's eyes snapped up to her, a smile blossoming on her face. And suddenly, the decision was being made for her. Imogen darted across the room, pressed the boots loaned to her by Galahad into her arms, and snatched up her hand, towing her out of the infirmary before Carys could even utter a single protesting syllable.

Just before Imogen managed to pull her out into the street, Carys stopped dead in her tracks. She could see that there were only a few people milling about this early in the morning, but an anxious feeling had suddenly taken over, making her heart race.

"Come on, Woad!" Imogen whined, pulling hard on Carys's arm.

"Are you sure it's safe, Imogen?" Carys said softly. "People don't like Woads here."

"Don't worry, Woad," she said, petting Carys's arm. "I'll protect you. And Uncle Kay will be there by the time we get there."

Imogen tugged on Carys's hand once more, and with a short huff and a shrug, Carys followed her. The swift, haphazard trail that the little girl led was enough to confuse anybody, and Carys felt sure that even if someone had had intentions of following them to do them some sort of harm, they would have given up in a matter of moments.

They darted into the tavern – it was virtually deserted, and Vanora, the lovely red-haired woman and another woman with dark brown hair and eyes were at the bar, looking weary. Vanora was perched on a barstool, caressing her pregnant belly absently, while the other girl had her chin in one hand while she twirled a lock of hair in the other.

When Vanora's eyes alighted upon them, she was immediately on her feet, looking irate. "Imogen!" she hissed, "What are you doing? You can't be wandering around the fort with - " She looked up, meeting Carys's eyes for a split second. She cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable, and Carys couldn't help but give her a crooked smile. "Imogen," she went on in a gentler tone, flushing slightly, "You can't be wandering around the fort (she cleared her throat) with (again) her ... alone. It's very dangerous."

"Why?" Imogen chirped innocently.

"Because..." she cleared her throat again, and Carys began to wonder if she had a cough or if she was really that uncomfortable. Carys looked away, becoming extremely interested in the color of the clouds as the sun crept over the horizon, allowing her body to sway as Imogen swung their linked hands back and forth. Yet another throat clear; "Because, Imogen, not very many people here like ... her people."

"Why not?" Imogen said. "Look how nice and pretty she is." She petted Carys's skinny arm as if she were her dog, and Carys grinned down at her.

"Well, Imogen," said Vanora, clearing her throat again, "She may be nice and pretty, but the fact remains that she is of a ... _ahem ..._ group of people that is widely considered our enemy."

"I know, but it isn't fair. Not all Woads are mean."

Vanora cleared her throat again. It was beginning to become irritating, Carys thought, her gray eyes flicking to the flame-haired woman, black brows drawing together slightly. "No, it's not fair. But the fact remains... "

Imogen shrugged, and Vanora sighed. There was no point in attempting to convince the child of the danger involved with being alone with the Woad. Neither of them was fit to defend themselves, let alone each other, if they were attacked. She resolved to confront Tristan on the matter when he returned.

"Do you want breakfast?" Vanora asked, and Imogen nodded vehemently. Vanora turned her eyes to Carys, who said, "Please," with a small incline of her head. Vanora offered a tiny, hesitant smile, and urged them to sit at the bar.

"Where should we go next?" Imogen asked, when Vanora had disappeared into the kitchen.

Carys hesitated to respond – Vanora's warnings to Imogen had struck a chord, and Carys was even more reluctant to unwittingly put the child in danger. She thought that if she could keep Imogen within running distance to someone who could help them should they need, she might be able to keep the child as a friend without endangering her. Imogen's company was singularly refreshing. She glanced around the tavern - it was filling up, but there was no sign of Bronwyn's husband.

"Where is Kay?" Carys asked.

Imogen shrugged nonchalantly, which made Carys suspect Imogen had been lying about Kay being here to coax her out of the infirmary. "He must have eaten earlier. We can go see him, at the stables."

Vanora brought out their food, a hearty breakfast of eggs and pork and bread, so large that despite her profound hunger, Carys could not finish it. She was mortified when Imogen did, devouring every last crumb on her plate.

Vanora could not help but chuckling as she took their plates away; the Woad blushed slightly at Vanora's expression, but laughed along with her. Vanora brought them some steaming cider, eager to keep them in the tavern for as long as she could, but both the Woad and Imogen downed their cider swiftly and had dashed out of the tavern directly.

Fed and watered, Carys was filled with new energy in the chilly morning air, and now had no problem keeping up with Imogen. They jogged – almost sprinted really – through the fort and towards the stables. Imogen stopped and sighed impatiently, little fists on her little hips, when Carys stated she needed a moment, leaning against the wall, head spinning, but then she gently took her hand and they walked at a more sober pace the remaining distance to the stables. The stables, like yesterday, were much warmer than outside, richly fragranced. There were less people in the stables this morning, though, and Carys was glad for it. Imogen dragged her to the back of the barn, where there were mares with their foals and cart horses and a range of more dishevelled horses that did not display any owners' wares.

As they wandered, a giant black-bay stallion extended his neck, snuffling at Carys's shoulder. She stopped, and took his face between her hands. His brown eyes were huge and kind, veiled by his long forelock, which she smoothed to the side of his face with her hand.

"That's Fionn," Imogen informed her, reaching up to scratch the stallion's chest, "He's my Da's other horse – the baby of the mare he uses."

"Why doesn't he use Fionn?" Carys asked, smiling as the horse's eyes drooped shut while she stroked his ears.

"Fionn's not a war-horse," Imogen said. "He's too nice. Like a puppy."

"I like him," she said, rubbing the white stripe that ran the length of his fine head.

"Maybe Da will let you use him." Carys gave Imogen a dubious look, but the girl was not paying attention. "Look!" she said, pointing at the entrance to the barn, "There he is now! Let's go ask him."

Carys felt herself pale when Tristan rode in on his tall gray mare, accompanied by the extremely tall knight called Dagonet, as well as Gawain. She wanted to hide – Tristan had been fearsome enough when he'd glowered at her in the tavern, and now she was going to have to speak to him? But just as she decided it would be a bad idea to do so, Imogen began to drag her forward.

"Imogen, no!" Carys protested, but the girl was much stronger than she appeared.

Tristan saw them before they reached his side. His heart skipped a beat, and his temples began to burn. What was the Woad doing with his daughter? He leapt from the back of his mare, Astolat, and stalked towards the pair.

"Da!" Imogen cried, beaming. The Woad, in her knee-length shift, looked pale and frightened. As she should, Tristan thought maliciously.

"Imogen!" Tristan hissed in a low, dangerous tone. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I just wanted to ask you if the Woad could use Fionn? She really likes him, and – "

Tristan pulled a face, grabbed Imogen's free hand and wrenched her away from the Woad. "I don't care if she likes Fionn. She won't be using my horse, and you won't be associating with her!" Imogen's mouth fell open in outrage, and she glanced with wide eyes from Carys to Tristan. "No!" Tristan barked, "You won't argue. You will go back to Aunt Vanora's hut and stay with the other children, and if I see you with her again, you'll get a lashing."

Boldly, Carys stepped forward, as Imogen's eyes moistened with tears. "Now is that really necessary?"

Tristan rounded on her, his ruddy complexion draining of all color. He advanced on her, and Carys almost tripped over her feet in her haste to back away from him. He continued advancing even when her back pressed against one of the pillars, until he was standing almost toe-to-toe with her. "And you! What do you think you are doing, gallivanting around with my daughter? You are a Woad – you are our enemy, and you are not welcome here – "

"Da!" Imogen shouted, "Don't!"

"Get back to the hut, Imogen!" Tristan growled. Imogen looked apologetically at Carys, before slinking out of the barn, shoulders hunched and head bowed. He turned back to Carys, who instantly stiffened under his glare. "If I see you with my daughter again, I'll finish what I started the day Arthur brought you here."

Carys's breath hitched in her throat at the revelation – he had shot her! – but began to breathe easier when he had left her. Unfortunately, there was only one way out, and she would have to walk by him to escape. She tiptoed towards the door, hoping to go unnoticed, but she could feel his glare upon her. She felt like a dog with its tail between its legs. She did not enjoy the sensation. Gawain lunged at her from behind his horse, and he grabbed her arm above the elbow before she could dart away from him. "Hey," he said, "Are you okay?" She nodded, and allowed him to draw her towards his horse's stall. "Don't worry about Tristan – he's just a little overprotective of that girl."

"I wouldn't have hurt her," Carys mumbled.

"I know. But she's all he has left of his wife – "

"His _wife_?" Carys spluttered. "Who could marry _him_?"

Gawain chuckled. "He was different when Isolde was alive."

"I see," Carys said wryly.

Gawain finished grooming Iskra and returned her to her stall. He took Carys's hand and folded it into the crook of his elbow. Carys blushed, feeling like a proper lady and not a stranger in a hostile place, wearing nothing but a tunic.

"He really was," Gawain assured her. Carys shrugged. She could not imagine a woman brave enough to wed the beast. "If you want a horse to use, you can use Iskra or Hetouyn (Gawain gestured at the gray stallion in the stall next to Iskra's) whenever they're free. Hetouyn is Galahad's horse."

Carys smiled up at him, squinting against the sun. "Thank you. But won't Galahad tire of things being volunteered for him without his consent?"

Gawain laughed. "He'll be fine with it. He's not as high-strung or as surly as he likes to pretend he is."

Carys spent the rest of the morning and some of the afternoon with Gawain. They were joined by Enid and Galahad just in time for lunch; Galahad was somewhat more friendly with Carys than he had been the day before, even grinning at her once, which made him look much younger than his scowling did, and much more handsome. Galahad and Gawain bid them farewell after the meal when the time for their training came about, Gawain bestowing Enid's hand with a lingering kiss and a wink that made her turn purple.

Still blushing, Enid returned the plates from their meal to the kitchen for Vanora, and then taking her hand, the lovely girl beamed down at her. "Come," she said. "Let us go to the river."

Just as Carys stood to follow, a gnarled, strong hand clapped onto Carys's skinny shoulder. "In a moment, Enid." The voice had probably been rich and soothing at one point, but was now harsh and gruff.

Enid paled, staring with wide eyes at the elderly woman as she turned Carys forcibly in her seat. "Good afternoon, Angharad," she said quietly. Angharad did not respond, and Carys found herself looking into an oddly familiar face – ice blue eyes, tight mouth and dark, weathered skin. Thick gray hair was plaited down her back. She was skinny and bent, but Carys had no trouble picturing her as tall and proud and fine.

"Do you know me, girl?" she demanded. Carys shook her head. The woman shrugged, and then took her chin, tilting her head up. "It is just as well," she said offhandedly, turning Carys's face to the side. She brushed her hair back with a rough hand. "Bronwyn did well with your stitches."

"She is very kind," Carys said, refraining from rubbing her jaw where the woman's bony fingers had grasped it.

Angharad grunted, and straightened up. "Do not overexert her," she said sternly to Enid, who obligingly shook her head. Without another word, the woman turned on her heel and stalked away.

"She is truly frightening," Carys whispered to Enid, who laughed nervously.

"Yes, yes she is," She stood, and took Carys's arm, linking it with her own. "I briefly considered becoming a Healer, until I met Angharad."

Carys laughed, then asked; "What do you do, then?"

"I'm one of the maids for the barracks – just for the Knights, though," she clarified, "Bronwyn would not have me working near the Roman soldiers. They call the Knights, and the Woads barbaric without ever looking to themselves. It's all for the best, though ..." She did not finish the sentence, but the color rose in her cheeks and Carys did not have to guess at her meaning.

"Do you love him, then?" she asked bluntly.

Enid looked at her with her pale eyebrows raised, a smile tugging at her mouth. "Well," she spluttered, "Yes, I suppose I do."

Carys grinned. "And? Have you kissed?"

"You _are _bold," Enid said through gritted teeth, but she was smiling. Carys merely shrugged, batting her long black eyelashes innocently. "Well, if you must know," Enid said, as though she wasn't going to tell her new friend voluntarily, "yes. But only once."

"Why do you not kiss more often?"

Enid chuckled. "We are not _married_!"

Carys shrugged and sighed, half-smiling. "How was it, anyway?"

Enid's eyebrows pinched together, "Um, well," she said, "It was rather ... wet."

"...wet?" Carys wrinkled her nose delicately.

"Yes, well, he was drunk, you see ..."

"Oh, well, that doesn't even count, then!" Carys scoffed, "You must demand a do-over."

Enid squealed in outrage and pinched Carys. "You _are _wicked, aren't you? I can't imagine what you'll be like when you get your memory back."

Carys's face fell. "If I do," she mumbled.

Enid glanced at her, and squeezed her arm. "Of course you will," she said. "You're a strong Woad woman. A little thing like losing your memory won't keep you down for long."

They entered a wooded area close to the Wall, and wove through the trees until they came to the river Enid had spoke of. The blonde girl led Carys along the embankment until the river became deeper and gentler.

"We swim here when it's warm out," Enid said, kicking off her leather shoes and walking slowly into the water until she stood knee-deep. Carys pulled off her boots and stepped in after her. "It's too cold today," Enid said, unnecessarily; Carys's skin had erupted with goosebumps the instant she had stepped into the river.

Holding her skirt up almost over her hips, Enid eased herself down until she was seated on the bank of the river, the water lapping at her feet and calves. Carys followed suit, but cared not for her tunic. This felt familiar, somehow, and she closed her eyes, straining her mind for some memory. A river, not unlike this one, came to mind – in fact, it was so similar she couldn't be sure if she was conjuring a memory or if she was simply seeing this one in her mind, until she heard the faint sound of laughter and saw a little girl running towards her, with bouncing raven ringlets, being chased by a tall, beautiful woman with chestnut hair.

"Momma, no!" the little girl screeched, giggling, as the chestnut haired woman scooped her into her arms ...

Carys opened her eyes when the memory faded. Her temples throbbed, and she pressed the heel of her hand into her eye socket to keep her eyeball from popping out of her skull.

"Are you alright?" Enid asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Carys nodded, swallowing hard. She didn't understand why, but she didn't tell Enid of her memory - or whatever that had been. She scooted back until her feet were out of the water. "Just tired, I think," she said, lying down. She hadn't felt tired until that moment, and her eyes closed without resistance.

Enid sighed, reclining close beside the Woad in the sun. "Good idea."

* * *

They napped for a spell in the sun, and as Carys came to, she heard the sound of laughter and happy splashing nearby. She was shocked immediately awake – Enid as well, when a particularly violent splash, nay, a veritable wave, overtook them. Enid screamed as the cold water soaked her garments and hair, and Carys gasped, jumping to her feet and gazing blearily around. Five small girls looked sheepishly up at the drenched Woad, silent and wide-eyed. Imogen was among them. "Sorry, Woad," she said, splashing through the water until she stood before Carys in her shift, "We didn't mean to wake you."

Carys pushed her dripping hair out of her face, at a loss for words. Luckily, Enid temporarily saved the girl from a tongue lashing by jumping to her feet. "You little hooligans!" she cried, but there was laughter in her voice.

"Sorry, Auntie Enid!" Imogen said, and the other little girls chorused their apologies after her.

Enid stripped off her garments until she, too, stood only in her shift. "Vengeance will be mine!" she cried dramatically, submerging herself in the water. The little girls screeched with laughter as Enid chased after them.

Just as Imogen was about to join them, Carys grabbed her arm, keeping her still. She sank onto her haunches, and said, "Imogen, what are you doing here?"

"We came to swim, that's all," she said, "Come swim with us."

"Imogen, your Father will skin us both if he finds us together."

"He won't be back for a while," she said, sulking. "He left again."

Carys worried the inside of her cheek between her teeth. Did Tristan ever spend any time with his daughter? Diffidently, she followed Imogen into the water, wondering what Tristan would do to her if he should discover them; if he would kill her in front of his daughter, or if he would wait until she was gone; if he would kill her quickly; if he would kill her at all, or do her severe bodily harm... Eventually, as the seven girls played, she forgot her worries. They played in the water until dusk began to descend upon them, and the water became ever colder.

The walk back to the fort saw them relatively dry, especially Imogen and Seven and Nine (two of Bors's and Vanora's daughters), who ran in front of the group, giggling and apparently tireless. Nim, a seamstress's daughter of only four, clung to Carys's back, snoozing with her head on Carys's shoulder, and Vera, a baker's daughter of six, snuggled in Enid's arms.

"We'd better get these girls home," Enid said, hoisting Vera in her arms with a grunt. "Why don't you three go on to the tavern?"

"No," Seven whined, "we want to stay with you."

"Can't we please stay with you?" Imogen pleaded.

Carys was about to refuse, suddenly recalling her worries of being maimed by an angry father when Enid sighed and consented. Fine, thought Carys spitefully, let her take the blame if Tristan finds his daughter with the Woad. The baker's and the weaver's huts were fairly close together, and, accompanied by Imogen, Carys went to deliver Nim to her mother while Enid went her own way.

Imogen knocked on the door of the hut, and it was answered after a while by a stooped old man who beckoned them inside, smiling broadly with just a few teeth, without even looking at them. "Who is it, Da?" came a voice from inside.

"Guests, guests," said the old man in a wheezy voice, patting Carys's arm as fondly as if she were his own daughter as he shuffled along beside her. A woman stepped into view, tall and stately, with honey brown hair and blue eyes, and nearly dropped the plate she was holding upon view of Carys.

She set the plate down hastily, and rushed forward towards Carys. "What happened? Is she hurt?"

"No, momma," Nim grumbled as the woman peeled her from Carys's back. "We were playing at the river –"

"How many times have I told you not to go to the river alone?"

"I wasn't alone," Nim protested, "I was with Imogen, and Vera, and Seven and Nine, and Enid was there, and the Woad, too."

"Don't worry, Auntie Sura," Imogen said brightly, "she's just tired. She can't keep up."

"Can too!" Nim flared, and the woman called Sura hushed her sharply.

"Go wash for dinner," she ordered.

Even as she stomped away, Nim groused; "Momma, we were just playing at the river! I'm clean already."

"Do as I say, Nim."

Sura narrowed her eyes at Carys, shifting her weight uncertainly. "So, you're the Woad."

"I suppose I am," Carys replied.

"You don't seem much like a Woad."

"Have you met very many?"

Sura smiled sheepishly. "No," she admitted. "I just thought you were all fearsome and dangerous."

"She's not," Imogen piped, taking Carys's hand, "She's a good Woad." Again, Imogen gave Carys the distinct impression the girl thought of her like a pet.

Sura's eyes darted between Imogen and Carys, apparently thinking the same, before her smile returned. "Thank you for bringing my daughter home, and it was ... nice meeting you."

Carys nodded and took her leave. Enid and Seven and Nine were waiting for them, leaning against a wall. Apparently, the day had caught up with them. The small girls walked ahead of Enid and Carys, playing a more subdued game than before.

"That little girl adores you," Enid noted, "Imogen."

Carys nodded. "Yes, she is sweet. But her father hates me, and doesn't want her anywhere near me."

Enid snorted derisively. "First, Tristan hates everyone, not just you, and second, the brute should not be angry; he should be pleased that at least someone has a care for the girl, while he barely does anything with her."

"Well, she has Bronwyn and you and Vanora and Sura, as well, and the other children."

Enid shrugged. "It is true that Imogen has many women who love her - who wouldn't? - but they all have their own children and worries to look after. We cannot give Imogen the attention she needs, and her father certainly makes no effort."

"He doesn't love her?"

"Oh, he loves her. He loves her enough to see her well clothed and well fed, but he loves being a soldier more. They all might gripe and groan about their service, but deep down, they all really love it," Enid grinned. "I was shocked nearly to death when he and Isolde married. Isolde was such a quiet soul, a good woman. I could not believe she loved him." Enid shook her head, as if the thought still bewildered her.

"What happened to her?"

"She was killed after Imogen was born. She'd asked Bronwyn to watch the baby while she went to pick flowers, and she didn't return."

"Why did she not take Imogen?"

"Imogen was a sickly baby – you'd never guess to look at her now, but Isolde's pregnancy did not go well. She'd had a difficult time conceiving, as well. When two years went by after her marriage to Tristan, everyone thought her barren, but finally, the gods granted her a child. Anyway, she went to gather some flowers and herbs, hoping they would make Imogen strong. She didn't come back that night, and the men found her the next morning, dead."

"Do you know what happened?" Carys pressed.

Enid nodded sadly. "Oh, yes. Tristan paid Bronwyn to tend to the baby for a few months after Isolde's death – they had been very good friends, and he told her directly what had happened; she had been found in the forest, with her throat cut. She may have been violated too, but he never directly told Bronwyn one way or the other if she had. She says there were nights she heard him crying in his chamber, but I don't believe her."

Carys nearly choked on her swollen heart. Was that pity she was feeling? For Tristan? How perfectly illogical. No, it must be for Isolde; to die so young and terribly. Or was it for Imogen, to lose her mother without ever knowing her, and then to have her father ignore her? "Why does he not pay more attention to his daughter?"

Enid shrugged. "I honestly couldn't tell you. The man withdrew after Isolde's death. He had been a reserved man before her, but after he was much, much worse. Bit everyone's head off who tried to speak to him, fought at the slightest provocation. If you can believe it, he's gotten better in the last two years or so, but I can't quite comprehend why he does not savour his daughter more. Gods know she worships the ground he walks upon."

Carys contemplated this for a moment, and was about to respond when Imogen herself approached, looking weary. "Can I have a ride like you gave Nim?"

Carys kneeled; "Of course," she said, and Imogen scrambled onto Carys's back, linking her arms around Carys's slender throat and hooking her knees in the crooks of her elbows. Imogen rested her cheek on her shoulder and promptly dozed off, while Seven and Nine took Enid's hands.

They came at long last to the tavern, the four of them shuffling slowly, and Enid hissed in Carys's ear; "You may want to put her down." Carys looked up with gritty eyes and saw that Tristan had caught sight of her, glowering viciously. She wondered absently if he ever looked any other way, or if his expression was frozen in a state of perpetual discontent.

"He has already seen me," Carys said, weary from the day and too tired to be anything but resigned to her fate.

Tristan rose from the table so hastily he upset the bench he was seated upon, accompanied by a loud and drunken roar from Bors. He stalked towards the Woad, oblivious to Enid and Bors's girls, who made themselves scarce when he took Carys by the arm and steered her out of the tavern. "I should kill you where you stand," he growled in her ear.

"She'll wake up if you do," Carys protested feebly.

He ignored her comment. "Did you not heed my warning?"

"Yes, but I did not purposely seek her out. She found us at the river and I had not the heart to turn her away."

"You had better find the heart," he snapped, directing her around a turn down a road of finer huts than Sura's, "because I won't have you endangering and corrupting my daughter."

"How do I corrupt your daughter? Because I am a Woad?"

He nodded curtly; "Because you are my enemy."

Carys sighed heavily. "Where are you taking me?"

"To my hut," he grunted.

A surge of feared flared hot and sudden through Carys's body, and it renewed her strength momentarily. She twisted away from him, surprised briefly that Imogen was sleeping through all of this. "Why?" she demanded, her voice escalating an octave or two.

"To put her to bed. If I take her away from you now, it will be a battle to get her to sleep," he grabbed her arm again, his grip so tight she guessed it would leave bruises.

They did not speak the rest of the way to his lodgings, not even as Carys laid Imogen gently down in her bed. "Good night, Woad," Imogen mumbled.

"Sweet dreams," Carys said, smoothing the hair from her forehead.

"Out," Tristan growled, gripping her arm again. He shoved her into the street and Carys, exhausted and feeling dizzy, stumbled and fell to her knees. He looked down at her, the light of the torches lending his face an even more sinister air in the dark. "I will not give you another chance. If I see you with my daughter again – "

Frustrated, Carys groaned, sitting back on her bottom. "Get on with it, then. Kill me. I will not stop spending time with your daughter, since you do not."

Tristan's brows contracted sharply. "What do you know of me? – Of my daughter?"

"I know what Enid and Imogen herself has told me, that you spend hardly any time with her." Carys tucked her long, pale legs beneath her and struggled to her feet.

Tristan scoffed. "What do two silly girls know? I am a soldier – "

"And you are a father, a father whose daughter loves him – "

"And you are a Woad. What does a Woad know of anything?"

The words came pouring out of Carys's mouth before she could stop them – before she even knew what she was saying; "We're not that different, you and I. The only difference between us is that my people have never submitted to Roman rule." Tristan looked almost as taken aback as Carys felt. _Where had that even come from?_ Less unexpected was Tristan's hitting her for the offense. The stitches in her temple burst open with a sickening noise, splattering her face with blood, and she mercifully blacked out before she hit the ground.

Tristan looked down at her prone body, her cruel words ringing in his ears. He felt justified and almost turned back into his hut when his conscience began to buzz. It had the most inconvenient timing. He looked down at her again, half of her face covered in blood, her tunic damp and dirty, her thick black hair tangled around her face. He could not just leave her in the road, much to his chagrin. He lifted her easily off the street – she was very light – and took her to the infirmary, where Bronwyn was pacing the hall in front of the Woad's room, having chewed her fingernails nearly to the bone. He imagined the floor was a little thinner where she had been pacing for gods knew how long. "Oh!" Bronwyn burst out when she saw him, "Thank the gods you found her!"

Tristan stood, clenching his jaw, while Bronwyn smoothed the hair from the Woad's face like a mother would to a child – like the Woad had for Imogen. He mentally shook himself to expel the thought, but it was replaced with one he found even less pleasant – of Isolde, caressing her baby's cheek while he watched from the doorway.

"Oh, shit," Bronwyn hissed, "she's torn her stitches again. And after Angharad complemented me on them, too! Bring her inside."

She pushed the door open and Tristan thought of dumping the Woad on the bed, but refrained - barely. He did, however, storm moodily out after Bronwyn had thanked him, and slammed the door, concentrating on more important thoughts than the Woad and his dead wife and his rebellious daughter; he had not found who had killed the three guards last night, though he had followed the tracks as far north as he dared venture on his own. The Woads would not be merciful if they caught him in their lands.

He stopped dead in his track, a slow smile twisting his face. _The Woads_. That was it. They knew _she _was here. Did they think her dead, were they claiming their revenge? Did they know she was alive, were they attempting to rescue her? Or was it one Woad, the second Woad Tristan had found evidence of the day they had brought _her_ here? There was only one way to find out ...

* * *

A/N : Sorry for the HUGE delay guys! I hope this instalment does not disappoint! Kind of slow, again ... but we're finding some stuff out about some people, Carys is making some friends...

You won't have to wait as long for the next chapter, I promise! Review, please! Let me know what you think. Thank you for reading.

Mahogony Rose – Thank you for your kind review! I really appreciate it. I'm so glad you like it. You should update your baby-daddy story, I would love to read it. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Theladyismene – Sorry for the delay! I'm sure glad you like it.

Solaris8 - I'm really glad you like it, and I'm so sorry I took so long! I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint, and I hope you don't mind if I imagine you as wearing a hat, even if you're not.

Ray – Thank you, I'm glad you like it! Sorry I took so long. Don't hate me!

BethyBooW – Your kind words make me feel warm and fuzzy inside! I hope you keep reviewing – reviews like this make me smile. Thank you!


	6. Six

**Chapter Six**

She was alive. He could rescue her. Owain felt positively elated as he rode north to his encampment. Kevay was the first to greet him, relief flooding her lovely face, their infant son, Louarn, cradled in her arms. Owain dismounted and kissed Louarn's forehead before embracing his wife.

"Any news?" Kevay demanded, just as a tent flap opened and his sister Guinevere, and his cousin Andraste, surged out.

"Any news?" Guinevere and Andraste repeated. Guinevere folded her skinny arms over her chest, looking anxious. Owain was suddenly overcome by the similarities in hers and Carys's behaviours, and he felt a pang for his younger sister, that was quickly subdued by her impending rescue.

"As I was about to tell Kevay," he said, pulling his wife close to him, "Carys is alive." Andraste sighed loudly, becoming visibly more relaxed.

"Thank the gods," she said, her voice thick with sleep, and promptly returned to the hut she and Guinevere shared.

Guinevere did not look encouraged. "Where is she, then?"

"She is somewhere in the fort. None of the guards I ... _questioned_ had seen her at all – they had only heard of a Woad girl being brought to the fort."

"So are you going to get her back?"

"Of course," said Owain sharply, "as soon as I can. Father has predicted a storm – I will be going when it clears."

"And you still will not let me go with you?"

Owain glared at his sister. "No. I will not risk your life as well."

Guinevere glared fiercely back at him, grinding her teeth.

Softly, Kevay suggested they share the news with Merlin. He would be glad to know his favourite daughter still lived, and perhaps his presence would lessen the tension between Owain and his sister. She worried for the time Owain would leave to rescue Carys, but at least they had a few days until the storm cleared ... a few days and nights when she could hold him in her arms and see him smile at her, and feel his kiss and touch. And then, when – _when_, not _if_, she told herself firmly – he returned, they would have a proper family again.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and Kevay wondered if Carys could hear it.

* * *

A loud crack of thunder startled Carys awake. She groaned, plagued by a splitting headache, rubbing her hands with her eyes. She had been having a rather pleasant dream, she thought, but for the life of her she could no longer recall what it was. She reached up to scratch her temple, found it especially tender, and remembered that her stitches had broken when Tristan had hit her. Hit her. The bastard. She opened her eyes, and found herself lying in her bed in the infirmary – had Tristan brought her here? She rather doubted it.

Another burst of thunder shook the roof over her head, and Carys eased out of bed, finding her body was rather sore this morning. On wobbly legs, she made her way down to hall to the open doorway that led to the infirmary, deciding that she enjoyed the rain. She sat in the opening, her back against the wall, a huge sigh escaping her lips as she extended her legs. Why was her body so sore? But the air was soothing; cool and damp, the scent of the rain intoxicating. She watched lightning split the sky and listened to the thunder roll powerfully in the dark clouds. Her headache faded with every breath she took.

She did not know how long she sat there for, but she was sure it was much later – if the numbness in her rear was any sort of gauge – when Enid joined her, breathless from running and sopping from the rain.

"I'm so glad you're alright," she said, assuming the seat beside Carys.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"When you didn't return, I thought Tristan might really have killed you."

Carys grinned lopsidedly at her. "Awful lot of help you would have been." Enid flushed, and Carys chuckled.

"Are you hungry?" Enid asked after a moment of silence.

"Famished. But I think I'll put actual clothes on, today."

"Maybe Sura will make you a dress." Enid suggested after they'd entered Carys's room.

Carys pulled on her breeches, tunic and boots. "Do you think she would?"

Enid nodded. "I don't see why not. Or maybe she can alter a few of mine for you. I have some I don't wear anymore."

"That would be nice," Carys said thoughtfully.

Enid took Carys's hand, and together, they plunged into the rain. Carys shrieked in delight, taking a slow turn around before clasping Enid's hand once more. Together, they sprinted through the fort until they reached the tavern. An awning had been drawn over the tables, but still the tavern was nearly deserted, except for Gawain, Galahad, the Knight called Bors and Dagonet.

Enid sat opposite Gawain, the color rising in her cheeks. Gawain grinned, taking a large swig from his steaming tankard, and Carys found a space being made for her between Bors and Galahad. As awkward as it was for her to be seated between the two large men, it certainly was warm.

"Good morning," Galahad said.

"Good morning," Carys replied, smiling at him.

"Do you like the rain?"

"I do."

"That's good," Bors grunted, "That's all it does here, anyway."

"That's not true," Carys said. "It didn't rain yesterday." Bors chuckled at her, nudging her in the ribs with his elbow.

Vanora came out of the kitchen with a bowl of stew, and grinned at Enid and Carys. "Good morning, girls," she said, placing the bowl on the table in front of Bors. "I'll be right back with your breakfast."

Bors began devouring his stew quite noisily, and slurped the steaming cider from his mug with equal enthusiasm. Enid wrinkled her nose, but was unable to turn away. "I'll never know what my sister sees in you," she said primly.

"I'm very well endowed," he replied simply.

"You rarely neglect to inform me," Enid said, taking a drink from Gawain's cider. Carys watched as he turned his mug so he could place his lips on the same place she had before he took another draught, and a slow smile pulled her mouth upwards. Gawain blushed, and shrugged it off, but Carys would remember to tease him about it later.

"How would you know what you're missing, otherwise?" Bors managed to utter between mouthfuls.

Gawain and Galahad laughed heartily, and Enid opened her mouth to respond, but their banter was brought to halt when Vanora reappeared, carrying three bowls of stew on one arm and three tankards of cider in the other hand. Carys marvelled at her skill.

She handed both Carys and Enid stew and cider, and then sat beside Bors to enjoy breakfast with him. The six of them sat in companionable silence and ate. Every now and then, Vanora was forced to serve a customer who wandered in to the tavern.

Carys wondered where Vanora's barmaids were ... the poor woman was heavily laden with child, and she had no assistance.

"Does she have no one to help her?" She asked Galahad.

"The place won't get very busy today, since it's raining out. Everyone likes to stay inside as long as possible when it storms."

He was right – the tavern did not get much busier that day. They came and went as whim inspired, but for most of the day they sat at that same table. Galahad taught Carys how to play dice and cards, touching her more than was strictly necessary and speaking in a low voice so he could use that as an excuse to be closer to her. Carys felt her face grow hot on these occasions, and from the sly grins Enid and Gawain were directing towards them, she could only guess at their speculation. But really, who were they to be speculating?

Later in the evening, the tavern began to fill, and a few of Vanora's barmaids finally came to work. Arthur and Lancelot joined them, and played some cards and dice, though Lancelot was a very skilled cheat. Arthur wedged himself between Carys and Bors, and spoke with her at length regarding her health and how she was finding the fort and her accommodations; if there was anything he could do to make her stay any better. She thanked him profusely for his kindness, but refused. She assured him that all was well, and she would stop abusing his hospitality as soon as she could.

"Maybe I'll even find myself a job," she suggested, and realized she rather liked the idea.

"Whatever you like," he said. "But you are welcome here for as long as you want."

"Thank you, Arthur." He patted her shoulder with a small smile and left the table. She did not know what it was about him that inspired such reverence – he seemed too quiet and kind to do so, but she did know that she liked him very much.

* * *

The next day passed in much the same fashion, except after Enid was through with her chores she took Carys to Sura's hut. It was raining again, harder today, so Sura and Nim taught Carys and Enid the loom, something that Enid picked up quite quickly but escaped Carys entirely.

Sura knelt beside Carys to confront the hopeless tangle of thread Carys had created. "I would hazard a guess you were not a weaver before you came here." Carys flushed deeply; Nim shrieked with laughter and Enid made an attempt to be polite by converting her giggle into a cough.

"Probably not," Carys admitted, sitting back on her heels. Then she laughed, looking at the mess she had created. "Oh, Sura! I'm so sorry."

She clucked her tongue, giving Carys a sidelong smile. Somehow, she managed to sort out the impossible jumble within minutes, and took over the loom Carys had been using. "Enid was asking if I could alter some of her dresses for you to wear, but it would be better if we could make them for you anew."

"You would do that for me?" Carys asked, surprised.

"If you can buy the material, I won't charge you for the labour."

Carys's face fell. "I've no money."

"There's plenty of work to be found here – "

"Vanora is always looking for new barmaids, since they keep getting pregnant," Enid said.

"The nerve of some people," Sura murmured facetiously. Carys snorted, and taking her queue from Enid, turned it into a delicate cough. "And Kay – you know Kay, right? – He might allow you to help him in the smith, or the stables, though you'd have no need for a dress there."

"Sura, she's a lady. Shouldn't she do something a little more ... you know ... ladylike?"

Sura regarded Carys shrewdly. "I do not think she is the same sort of lady we are, Enid. She is not weak or soft like us."

Carys was unsure of whether to take that comment as a compliment or not, but instead of dwelling on it, she said, "I would like to work with horses."

Sura's full mouth twitched upwards. "It would certainly not be as dull as a lady's work."

"We can talk to Kay tonight, if you'd like," Enid suggested. It was then Carys remembered they'd been invited for dinner by a beaming Bronwyn, who had refused to tell them what she was all aglow about.

"In the meantime, you may have one or two of my dresses," Sura offered. "I have far too many, and we are nearly the same height."

Enid and Carys departed Sura's hut an hour or so later, with Carys outfitted in a simple, but pretty midnight blue dress, a heavy linen sheath much like the one Sura had been wearing, except it did not look quite as nice on her; Sura was as tall as Carys, but had curves Carys lacked.

Enid had dressed Carys's raven's-wing hair into two long, thick braids that hung over her shoulders, and proceeded to exclaim over how well she looked in a dress. "Imagine what Bronwyn will say – no, what _Galahad_ will say." She waggled her eyebrows, and Carys gave her a shove.

"And you say I am wicked?" Carys teased.

Enid scoffed, waving her petite hand. "What an adorable pair you would make." Now, it was Carys's turn to scoff, and she rolled her eyes at her friend. "You and Galahad, could you _imagine_?" Her peal of laughter cut through the still night air like a bell, and Carys found herself unable to resist imagining it, and felt her face warm. "You are considering it!" Enid laughed again, and mirth bubbled in Carys's stomach.

And died in her throat, for as they rounded a corner, Carys collided headlong with Tristan, finding him quite as solid as if she had walked into a wall. She stumbled backwards and fell right onto her already sore bottom, into a puddle. In her new dress. She groaned in irritation, pouting.

Tristan looked down at her for a moment; considering for the first time that she was rather striking, with her black hair and pale skin and elegantly sculpted features, before implusively reaching down to help her up. She regarded him hesitantly with eyes that were a mixture of silver and black, her slender black eyebrows pinched together to create a tiny vertical line just above her nose. He could comprehend her confusion, he could only guess at why he was helping her at all, the bothersome wench. Before he could revoke his gesture of kindness, she slipped one long hand into his grasp and allowed him to pull her to her feet. He was surprised at the roughness of her palm – for some reason, he had expected it to be smooth, before he suddenly remembered she was a Woad, and dropped her hand as if it were red-hot.

He nodded curtly once, and then stepped around her, continuing on his way.

"What a peculiar man," Enid commented, but Carys barely heard her over the buzzing in her ears. Absently she rubbed the hand Tristan had held with the other – Galahad might make her blush, but he did not make her _tingle_.

* * *

At dinner, Bronwyn announced that she was with child. Enid leapt to her feet with a squeal to embrace her sister, and Carys followed suit. "Congratulations!" she hissed in Bronwyn's ear. When the smaller woman pulled away, she was dabbing tears from her eyes.

"It is still very early, I should think," Bronwyn said, "so please do not tell everyone, yet. I do not want them to know until it is more certain."

"She simply had to tell someone," Kay said, beaming at his wife, enveloping her tiny hand entirely in his large one.

"I'm so glad it was us," Enid said, slipping her hand into Kay's free one. She dabbed her own eyes on her sleeve.

"We won't breathe a word," Carys added.

Luckily for Carys, over the course of the dinner, and with the excitement of his wife's pregnancy, Kay seemed to have forgotten his animosity towards Carys, and when the subject of her assisting him in the smith or the stables was broached, he laughed heartily.

"You are a skinny girl," he stated, without malice, "but if you wish to work with the horses I'm sure we could find something for you to do."

* * *

The next morning, Bronwyn woke Carys very early. "I wanted to check your stitches before you went to work with Kay," she explained.

Yawning, Carys obliged, covering her legs with her fur as Bronwyn poked and prodded her temple and abdomen. "You know," she said thoughtfully, her breath warm against Carys's abdomen, "I think these might be ready to come out soon. Perhaps two or three days. These," she said, tapping Carys's temple, "will probably be another week."

"Alright," Carys said, yawning again.

"Get dressed; I'll take you home and you can eat with us."

Carys pulled on her breeches and tunic, but carried her boots as they walked through the light rain. The stone was cold and wet beneath her bare feet, but refreshing. "Have you thought of any names?"

Bronwyn glanced at her, her eyebrows raised. "Names? Oh, for the baby. Well, it is a little too early to be thinking such things ..." A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and Carys raised an eyebrow, giving her a dubious look. "Oh, _alright_. If it's a girl – oh, I hope it's a girl! – I want to name her Mona, after my mother, but Kay wants to name her Danica after his mother." She frowned, worrying her lip. "Perhaps I should pick a name that has nothing to do with either of our mothers, and then we might agree."

"And if it's a boy?"

"Oh, wouldn't a boy be _wonderful_? There, we do agree. We would name him Alistair, which was the name of a hero from a story Vanora used to tell."

"I like it."

"I hope he – or she – has black hair, like Kay." Bronwyn touched one of Carys's thick braids, a wistful little smile on her face. "Like you."

They stepped into Bronwyn's hut, to be assaulted by the heavy scent of porridge. "I tried to make it like Vanora's," Bronwyn said dolefully, ladling some of the porridge into a bowl for Carys.

It wasn't quite as good as Vanora's, but it was still delicious, and Carys asked for seconds before Kay was finished his first. "Are you ready to work today, Woad?" Carys nodded eagerly, excited to have something to do besides being idle – not that she didn't enjoy spending time with Enid and the children and the Knights; she simply had an urge to be useful.

Kay led the way to the stables, and the Woad bobbed along beside him, a small smile on her full mouth. She was a friendly, happy little thing, he thought, amused, and Bronwyn and Enid had certainly taken a real shine to the girl. Even Vanora had nothing bad to say about her, other than the fact that she was a Woad, and rather reckless to go wandering about the fort like she did. Gawain liked her too; "She's got real spirit," he would say, and Galahad would not say anything, which spoke volumes in itself. He looked down at her, and she turned her face up towards his, and he offered her a smile. She returned it whole-heartedly, positively beaming as if working in the stables was as exciting a prospect as being given a sack full of gold. He could clearly see that she was a Woad – there was no denying it, but there was also no denying that she was but a girl, perhaps a few years younger than Bronwyn, enthusiastic and lively like Enid, and though she hid the fear and lonesomeness in her eyes well, there was also no denying that it was there too.

"Are you really so excited?" He asked her, and the color rose in her cheeks.

"Actually, yes, I am." He chuckled at her.

They entered the smith; its warmth could be attributed to the low fire that burned in the brazier. "Get the flame built up while I check on the boys in the stable; there's wood around the side."

Carys nodded and turned on her heel, leaving the way she had come. She found a stockpile of wood protected from the weather by a lean-to against the smith, and gathered as much as she could, placing each log carefully in the fire. She built the fire up to an unbearable heat; it roared in the grate, but when Kay returned, he ordered her to build it higher.

"Higher?" she yelled incredulously, over the din the fire created.

"You cannot melt iron with that measly flame, girl."

She did as she was told, and when the fire was high enough, the entire smith appeared distorted from the heat waves. She wiped her forehead on her sleeve and panted, standing close beside Kay. "You'll get used to the heat," he declared, but Carys glared dubiously at him. He taught her how to make horseshoes and nails, and she assisted him with making the iron guards for wagon wheels that were brought in by the carpenter.

The flame was stoked ever higher later in the day, when they were joined by another man by the name of Brannon, and his apprentice Cadr. Carys watched in fascination as they fashioned sword blades from twisted heaps of metal, arrowheads, and even a new breastplate for one of the Roman soldiers. They were fine craftsmen, with arms the size of Carys's torso, and they explained their work to her as best they could, but, like weaving, Carys did not have the finesse needed to create such mastery – she resigned herself to making horseshoes.

She did not mind in the least, especially when Kay started bringing in actual horses to tend to. He explained everything in detail; how to remove the old shoe if needed, how to clean and prepare the hoof, how to reshape the shoe, and finally, how to get it on properly. Carys listened attentively, and was pleased with herself when she managed to shoe one of the horses –albeit an old, quiet mare that did not put up any fuss – without Kay's help.

Her arms ached from wielding the hammer all day, and she shuffled wearily behind Kay back to his hut, rubbing her arms. She was dirty, and her clothes were damp with sweat. Wanting nothing more than a bath, she refused Bronwyn's invitation to dinner, but accepted the large roll of bread when it was pressed into her palm insistently, with thanks. She toyed with the idea of indulging in the scented bath in the Knights' barracks, but decided against it; after such heat throughout the day, she would like nothing more than to slip into the icy embrace of the river.

She walked slowly, picking at her bread thoughtfully. Today had been a good day; busy and interesting and laborious, but like the other good days she'd had at the fort, it was overshadowed by what she was missing – her life before she had come here.

She had summoned that one memory, that day by the river with Enid, and now every night had dreams that spoke to some secret corner of her soul. Last night it had been of a man, a man with eyes as blue as the sky and hair as black as midnight; a woman with chestnut hair – the woman from the river, with the little girl with black curls – and four dark-haired children milling about them. The night before that, it had been a small girl on a horse, evoking such a profound sensation of freedom in Carys she thought she might cry. The night before; a huge flame engulfing a funeral pyre, and the sound of a scream that had Carys's throat so raw it was as if she had been the one screaming.

And certain things she saw – certain faces, the way someone's hair curled over their collar, the way a person moved, the flash of a scarlet cloak, the way someone gesticulated when speaking or folded their arms when listening, a certain tenor of a voice or even a scent, would elicit a jolt of recognition that was so completely misplaced it had Carys feeling frustrated and bereft. She sometimes missed the feeling of something around her wrist, but unsurprisingly, could not remember what it was.

She found otherwise that she had a very good memory, as she picked her way through the trees, following the route Enid had taken when they had first come to the river. She sat on the bank of the river as thunder rolled overhead, and she smiled brightly. She loved to swim while it was raining – wait, did she? She could not remember ever having done it before, so how could she know? She grumbled to herself while she pulled off her boots and removed the braids from her hair.

A hawk screeched nearby and Carys started involuntarily, glancing around for a sign of it. She finished removing her clothes and found a particularly large tree to shelter them – she wouldn't mind having something dry to slip into after her swim, even if they didn't remain dry for long, and slipped into the water. The hawk screeched again, and again she jumped, cursing the beast under her breath.

"Jumpy, aren't you?"

This time, Carys not only leapt, but screamed as well. Her first instinct was to scramble out of the water, but decided against it when she realized the voice that had spoken was male. She turned towards the voice, but the heavens chose that exact moment to open and dump a rain so torrential she could not see, nor hear the speaker. But she felt sure that he could see and hear her, and she did not like the feeling.

In reality, Tristan could not see or hear much better than she could, and so he simply waded towards where he had seen her last. He kept low in the water, just his eyes and nose peeking out, as she was obviously doing, for his hand grazed her skin before he saw her. She shrieked again and struck out him, legs flailing aimlessly in the water. He caught one of her skinny ankles after she'd delivered a surprisingly forceful kick to his thigh, too close to an area rather more dear to him, and hauled her beneath the water. After much groping in the murky depths of the river, he caught one of her skinny arms, and let her surface, spluttering.

"Stop your thrashing, woman, or you'll drown yourself," he growled in her ear. The Woad was frantically smoothing the hair from her eyes and coughing.

"Tris – Tristan?" she choked out, and Tristan grunted in response, releasing her arm. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I could ask the same of you," he replied, blinking rapidly to keep the rain out of his eyes.

"I just wanted a swim." Thunder cracked menacingly overhead, and Carys jumped again, beginning to feel rather ridiculous. Unwittingly, she stepped closer to Tristan, and found herself nearly flush against him.

Even in the gloomy weather, Tristan saw her blush – it practically glowed. She made to move away, but again he seized her arm, keeping her still. Carys looked up at him with her quicksilver eyes, wide and round, her full mouth slightly agape. He could feel the brush of her skin against his, and his mind began to wander of its own volition – what part of her body was that, grazing his chest? Her elbow, he guessed, from the way she held herself; what was that, that touched his thigh? Her own thigh, from the way she stumbled backward.

He released her. "You shouldn't be out here alone," he warned her in a low voice. "Who knows what might happen?"

Carys hesitated, captivated by his gleaming tawny eyes, eerily bright in the dim light. The rain had eased slightly – her vision of him was clearer, but all she could see was a vision of danger. Even naked and unarmed, Tristan was by far the most foreboding creature she had ever encountered.

She ducked under the water and swam for shore, half expecting him to prevent her escape, which Tristan half contemplated doing. She did not pause a moment when she reached the embankment; she scrambled out of the water as if some water monster were after her with its teeth bared. Her limbs were long and white, and she was very thin, he decided, not much of a woman at all. So why had his body reacted so treacherously when she had stood so close to him in the water?

* * *

A/N: Another update! So soon! I hope it's alright. I know that it's slow and you're probably bored with it by now, but I SWEAR it will get better. I promise. Pinky swear. I also changed the title, in case you hadn't noticed. But I'm sure you did, because you are observant, wonderful people.

Thank you to BethyBooW and raycee for reviewing, I'm glad you're enjoying it!


	7. Seven

**Chapter Seven**

The weather persisted in being miserable for the next week, and Carys avoided Tristan like the plague. She became incredibly anxious whenever Imogen found her, wondering if Tristan would be upon her, but he was never around. Perhaps he too, was avoiding her.

All of Carys's stitches were removed, and at her request, Bronwyn handed her a looking glass so she might study her temple. "It looks alright," she said reassuringly, but Carys's face fell as she studied the puckered, pink line on the side of her face, ashamed to admit that she was vain enough to be concerned about one more scar – gods knew she had plenty already. At the Woad's look of dismay, Bronwyn was quick to assure her that she would consult Angharad on making a poultice to prevent scarring, but Carys was only marginally heartened.

Throughout the week, Carys worked with Kay in the stables, formulating a pleasant routine; making particularly good friends with Fionn, and working extremely hard – she hoped, if she made herself tired enough, the nightmares would stop. Lately, she had started having dreams that involved blood and death and screaming and fire, and she felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding every morning that she couldn't shake.

After an oddly peaceful night, Carys awoke feeling rested with the sun – the sun! She sat upright in bed with a grin, gripping the window frame. The sun was rising, without its blanket of clouds, turning the sky a kaleidoscope of pinks, oranges and purples.

Carys pulled on her new clothes, the coin lent to her by Kay who insisted she had garments that fit her while she was in his employ – he was tired of her constantly having to hitch up her pants and pull her tunic back up over her skinny shoulders. She got two pairs of breeches – black and brown, a nice pair of tall black boots, and two tunics, one red and one blue. She chose the red tunic and the black breeches, stepped into her boots, and bounded out the door of the infirmary – she had yet to find somewhere else to stay.

She beat the familiar path to Bronwyn's hut, combing her fingers through her curls and daydreaming. Gawain and Galahad had promised to take Carys and Enid for a ride as soon as the weather cleared; perhaps if she finished her duties early today she could take up their offer.

She rounded the last corner before Bronwyn's hut, and collided with a firm chest, deciding that she should start paying attention while walking – especially around corners. At least she didn't fall down.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, without looking up. She made to sidestep the Roman soldier, having caught the flash of his scarlet cloak, but her arm was caught by the man, who dragged her back and shoved her up against the wall.

He was tall, broad, and blond, with a strong face and cold green eyes. A sneer twisted his thin lips, and Carys felt her heart constrict in her chest. "You're the Woad," he stated, leering down at her. Carys shrank back against the wall, glancing feverishly from her right to her left, but Romans, curse them, never traveled alone; she was flanked by two more men and trapped. "Arthur has kept you hidden well," he said in a low voice, leaning close to her. "Now, I can see why." He raised one hand and traced the side of her face with a long finger. Her skin crawled at his touch, and she flinched away, slapping his hand.

"Do not touch me," she hissed, her gaze igniting.

The man laughed at her, his cronies along with him, and she supposed she ought to have been thankful that at least his breath was not sour. "You are in my world now, little Woad; I can touch whatever I like." In a grip like a vice, he took her jaw in his hand, pulling her up onto her tiptoes and very close to his face. She clawed at his wrist angrily, dimly aware of the laughter of his fellows. "Pretty little savage, isn't she?" He mused thoughtfully. His companions stepped closer, looking positively salacious.

At the word _savage_, Carys flared up, pushing down the bile that rose in her throat. She managed to get a grip on one of his fingers, and she yanked it backwards until she heard it snap, shoving him backwards with her other hand. With a yell, he released her, but unfortunately her strength was no match for his, and he staggered back only a few steps; not enough for her to duck away from them.

"You little witch!" he snapped, cradling his injured finger. He backhanded her across the face and she fell to her knees, spitting blood. A meaty hand was fisted into her hair, and she cried out, tears pricking her eyes as she was dragged to her feet. "I'll teach you a little something about – "

"Gentlemen!" an authoritative voice rang out, and the man's grip loosened on her hair as the three Romans spun about.

"One of Arthur's Knights," the blond Roman ground out to his men. Turning he said, in a much more jovial tone; "What can we do for you?"

Carys caught a glimpse of Tristan, and she could have cried with relief. He may not have been her ideal rescuer, but beggars could not be choosers. Tristan inclined his head towards Carys, "Is there a problem?"

"We were simply giving the Woad a lesson on respecting her superiors."

"I do not see anyone superior to her about," Tristan retorted. "Release her."

"You must be blind, Sarmatian, for we are standing before you," the Roman said haughtily. "Besides, she has offended me."

"Thankfully, you do not have to be troubled with such trivialities as disciplining savages; I will see that she is punished accordingly," Tristan said. "Now release her; I will not ask again."

"What are you going to do?" The Roman taunted him, casually tracing the length of her exposed throat with one finger. Carys twisted away from him, and spat in his face. The man made to strike her again, but Tristan was too fast for him. He enclosed the Roman's wrist in a vice-like grip that turned his knuckles white. His eyes were dark with malice, the tattoos upon his cheekbones bright against his pale skin, and a muscle ticked in his clenching jaw.

"You are a guest of Arthur," Tristan bit out, "and she is his ward. You will release her, or I will break more than just your finger." Carys could see the muscles in his forearm bunching, even beneath the sleeve of his tunic, as he clutched the Roman's wrist ever tighter. The Roman's face turned white with pain, and he was forced to his knees.

"Release her," he whimpered, still glaring at Tristan defiantly, and whoever had Carys's hair shoved her away as if he was suddenly repulsed by her. She fell once more to her knees, scraping her palms. Tristan's long legs appeared in her vision, and then his hands. She took them without hesitation, and he hoisted her to her feet.

He took her arm and hauled her down the street, away from the irate Romans, and ducked into an alcove between two houses. He took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look up at him. The Woad's silver-black eyes were red-rimmed, swimming with tears; her lip was split and puffy and her cheek was very red, but otherwise she appeared none the worse for wear. "Are you alright?" he asked gruffly, releasing her chin with a covert touch for her collarbone.

She nodded, sniffling. She dipped her head, swiping at her tears behind the safety of her hair. Her scalp throbbed and her cheek was on fire and her legs and hands shook and there was blood in her mouth ... she choked a little, and then rubbed her face fiercely with her hands, breathing deeply. "How did you come to find me?" she asked, when she felt that she had steadied her voice.

"Bronwyn is ill this morning," he said, "and Kay wanted to stay with her. My mare threw a shoe while I was out riding, and when I came to him about fixing it, he told me I should find you."

"Oh alright," she said softly, and then; "Thank you."She touched his arm, and awkwardly, he patted her shoulder, sidling out of the alcove. Being so close to her made his pulse quicken – he could make no sense of it.

He led the way to the stables, but the Woad clung so closely to him she might as well have been on his back. She managed to resist the urge to take his hand.

* * *

Tristan brought his mare, Arima, to the adjoining door between Kay's smith and the barn, walking slowly to accommodate her limp. The Woad clucked her tongue and pet Arima's black nose, tucking her thick black hair into her tunic before hinging smoothly at the waist to examine the mare's hoof. There was a good amount of dirt packed into the sole, and the frog had been scratched, and was slightly swollen.

Muttering to herself, the Woad disappeared inside the dark smith, and it took her no time at all to set the place aglow with a massive, roaring fire. She returned with a sharp little tool to clean Arima's hoof, and a roughly made horseshoe. "You don't have to wait, if you don't want to," she said, twisting her hair into a haphazard knot at the nape of her neck.

Tristan fought an unwelcome urge to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. "I'll stay."

She shrugged and set to work, first cleaning the hoof and then resizing the shoe, which she had to do several times. Tristan's misgivings increased every time she disappeared into the smith, but when at last she had the right size, her work was comparable to Kay's.

"I wouldn't ride her for the rest of the day," she said, wiping her grimy hands on her shirtfront, "But she's all done." Tristan nodded his thanks at her, impressed in spite of himself.

Feeling somewhat better, Carys returned to the smith. Kay arrived half an hour or so after she had finished with Amira. "How's Bronwyn?"

"Better, now. Angharad gave her a tonic for the stomach sickness; says it's very common in the early weeks of pregnancy."

"That's alright then," Carys said with a smile. Kay grabbed hold of her chin before she could turn back to her work, and tilted her head back.

"What happened?" he asked, gesturing at her cut lip and the crescent beside her eye that was turning gradually purple.

"Nothing," she said in a falsely light tone, pushing his hand away. Kay gave her a stern look, and Carys rolled her eyes. "I just had a run-in with a Roman on the way to your hut. Tristan found me; no harm done."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know," she said irritably. "I didn't ask his name."

Kay chuckled and they set to work, alternating between the stables and the smith. By the end of the day, Carys was ravenous, having forgone the noon meal to mend tack with Two, Bors's oldest son. She almost hugged Enid when the girl met her in the barn, equipped with a wedge of cheese, an apple and a large roll stuffed with meat and gravy, but decided against it, considering how filthy she was. She also brought Carys a dress from Sura, in a lovely dove grey, which meant that after her bath tonight she wouldn't have to dress in her soiled clothes.

"You missed supper again," Enid said dolefully, while Carys washed her hands.

"Sorry," Carys said. Mischievously, she added; "You weren't too lonely, I hope?"

Enid wrestled with a grin, blushing. "No, Gawain sat with me. And, look at this!" She pulled aside the neck of her gown to reveal a pretty silver lariat, with a small, perfectly shaped opal that hung just beneath the hollow of her throat.

With a gasp, Carys snatched it in her hand. "Where did you get this?"

Beaming, Enid said, "I found it in my room before I came here."

"Is it from Gawain?"

Grinning, Enid nodded. "At least, I'm fairly sure. I found it with this." She fished around inside of her bodice and pulled out a carefully folded piece of parchment, upon which a note had been scrawled; _For the silver in your eyes – G. _

Mouth agape, Carys looked at her friend, who was beaming and nodding proudly. She then seized Carys by the shoulders. "Is there really silver in my eyes?" She threw her head back with a sigh of ecstasy, and Carys giggled, feeling buoyant and happy for her friend. Finally, the man was properly courting Enid, instead of the two just sharing blushes.

* * *

Despite her long, languorous swim in the river, Carys slept fitfully that night, plagued by the images of faceless people and whispers she couldn't quite decipher. A ghostly voice hissed; "_Carys_," in her ear, and she started awake, heart pounding a painful tattoo against her ribs. She rubbed her ear; it was itchy and cold from the vaporous breath, but all was silent now in the room. Except for... Carys went cold, and her heart picked up even faster. The room was silent, except for the sound of her own heart, the rushing of blood in her ears, and someone else's breathing. It had to be someone else, since Carys was holding her own.

Slowly, she sat up in bed, pushing her hair out of her face. A little girl stood there, half-concealed by shadows.

"Imogen?" Carys whispered into the darkness.

The child did not move at first, nor did she give any indication that she had heard, but when she spun to open the door, Carys could see it wasn't Imogen – not with hair so black.

"Wait!" Carys cried, kicking off the furs and chasing after her. The night air was cold – surprisingly so, and fog clung to everything. A swirl of mist and the sound of the girl's bare feet slapping on the damp stone alerted Carys to her path. She sped after her, but soon the mist became so thick, she could not see where she was going, could not hear anything but the sound of her own breathing captured by the cloud and returned to her.

Coming to a standstill, she felt enclosed, claustrophobic and scared. The whispers had begun again. "_Carys_," they chanted, in their haunting voices.

Feeling sick, Carys called into the mist; "What? What do you want from me?" Her words did not travel far.

The whispers stopped, and the mist swirled, and then the little girl was before her. She was pale, with long black curls and eyes as grey as a storm. Her face was dirty, her eyes red-rimmed as if she had been crying. She held up one small, grubby hand, and the fog swirled again. A tall, mahogany haired woman stepped forward, taking the little girl's hand. Her eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue-grey, and when she smiled her lovely face lit up like the sun.

Carys choked on a sudden wave of emotion, and fell to her knees, clutching at the woman's skirts. "Mother," she whispered, without hesitation. She did not need a memory to know her mother's face. The woman nodded, reaching out to touch Carys's hair. The little girl was no longer there.

She bent down, easing Carys's face up with two fingers beneath her chin. "It's time to wake up now," she said, her voice like a caress.

"Wake up?" Carys said dazedly, and her mother smiled, kissing her forehead. There was no protesting; the mist dissipated instantly, and Carys found herself kneeling in the middle of the street in her shift, shivering in a light rain. She wished she was still dreaming.

* * *

As a well-known night crawler, Tristan saw many odd things in the hours of dark; a Roman wife seeking a night of unbridled passion in the arms of someone less than reputable (Lancelot was usually a good contender); a husband who would rather slake his lust with another man than with his wife; people sneaking in and out of the safety of the fort's walls while the guards snored drunkenly at their posts, but never before had he seen a tall, lean Woad dressed only in a shift that was far too short for his comfort, sprinting through the streets like a ghostly apparition.

Frowning, he chased her – the gleam of her pale legs, adorned with those black tattoos acting like a beacon, beckoning him to follow. He heard her cry out, and accelerated his pace, rounding a corner just in time to see her fall to her knees in the street, grasping at thin air. There was no one around...why had she shouted?

Was she _sleepwalking_? Arthur used to, when they were all children. Tristan found the act quite disturbing. He crept towards her, feeling uneasy as he watched her suddenly begin to tremble. Hugging herself, she bent double, now not only shivering from cold but shaking quite violently. He swallowed hard as he bent down, touching her shoulder. She started and spun, grey eyes wide and red-rimmed as tears spilled from them. The tip of her nose was pink and her teeth chattered. She looked disoriented at first, but eventually came to recognize him. She seized his tunic in a swift movement, in a vice like grip, suddenly wild.

"Did you see her?" she asked, craning her neck to look up at him. He held her wrists loosely in his hands, his heart thumping in his chest.

"See who?" he asked gently.

"The woman ..." she looked past him, as if hoping to see her again. "My Mother!" she said abruptly. "Did you see her?"

Tristan looked around, wondering if instead of regaining her memory, the Woad was going insane. "There's no one, Woad," he said gruffly. Her face fell, and she looked to be on the verge of tears. She let her chin fall to her chest, and her grip loosened on his tunic. Instinctively, his grip tightened on her wrists, pulling her to her feet. "Come, Woad," he said, putting his hand on the small of her back and guiding her forward.

She turned to face him, walking backwards. She was no longer frowning, no longer crying. In fact, she was beaming. "Not Woad, anymore," she told him. "I know my name."

"Do you?"

She nodded vigorously. "Carys. My name is Carys."

* * *

A/N: Another update! Yay! And now Carys's memory is returning, but she is also sleepwalking/hallucinating. I promise it will get more exciting as Carys's memory returns – and as I figure out how to weave this story. I have plenty of ideas; hopefully it will work out! :D Also, I changed the title again, for as La Victime informed me, it was the same title as her story. Bow, Meet Arrow is the title of a song by 2o'clock Girlfriend, and since both Tristan and Carys are archers and are eventually going to fall in love, I thought it would be a good title. I have settled on this one ... I quite like it.

Thank you to raycee, countrygirlxo and Mahogony Rose for reviewing, I really appreciate it! I hope this update is acceptable.

To everyone who is reading my story, thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy it! Review...*shakes fist*

xo.


	8. Eight

**Chapter Eight**

Much like a terrible monster, knowing the Woad's name did nothing to ease Tristan's mind when in her presence. On the contrary, it merely served to make the situation worse; for no longer was it impersonal – she was not "The Woad" anymore. No, she was _Carys_. As if that wasn't enough, her name just happened to roll quite sweetly off the tongue, and the way she smiled when it was said, as if it were the sweetest thing anyone could say to her, made him want to seek her out, if only to speak her name and watch her glow. For this very reason, Tristan made a point of avoiding her – who knows what might happen if he said her name too many times and she smiled at him in such a way?

Some things, like going to the stable and eating at the tavern, could not be avoided lest Tristan be accused of being indiscreet. He could think of nothing worse than someone discovering his peculiar interest with the Woad. This morning was no exception, but as he made his way to the tavern for the morning meal with Imogen, he found himself hoping she wouldn't be there. As luck would have it, she wasn't – at least, not yet.

Carys was, in point of fact, still in bed. Kay had graciously given her the day off in honour of his birthday, and she had intended to take advantage of it by sleeping late. Her body, however, complained. She awoke shortly after dawn, and grew steadily more restless every minute she lay motionless in bed. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, she kicked off the furs, pulled on the soft gray dress Sura had given her, and made her way to the tavern for breakfast. She toyed with her curls absently, her eyebrows pinched together. She had had odd dreams last night – well, more odd than usual, and the images were so scattered and apparently unrelated that she could not string them together coherently, which both annoyed and confused her.

Imogen ambushed her at the entrance to the tavern, and Carys scooped her up into the air, making her shriek with delight. Settling her on one hip, she pulled her hair over one shoulder. "Good morning, heart," she said brightly, and Imogen beamed, kissing her on the cheek.

"Come sit with us," the child commanded, and using her hair as a veil, Carys surveyed the table. She hoped by "us" Imogen meant her, and Enid, Bronwyn, Sura, or Gawain, or Galahad, or Bors, Dagonet, Lancelot or Arthur, but alas, no; it was Tristan - the one person that set her nerves to buzzing. Her mouth went dry and her stomach lurched. Ever since that evening in the river, when he had been so close to her, she had been becoming increasingly nervous around him. There was something in his gleaming, unfathomable topaz eyes that reminded her of a predator – and it didn't help that they were cast in shadow by that unruly mane of mahogany hair, lending him an undeniably feral grace. She felt her cheeks go warm when he met her gaze, and quickly ducked her chin, finding the brick lay on the ground inexplicably fascinating as she worked her way towards him. He barely looked at her, and spoke to her even less, but when he did she felt she might be prone to girlish fits of swooning. On these occasions, she would remind herself that she was a Woad, and although she still could not quite remember her past, she felt sure that Woads did not make a habit of swooning.

She placed Imogen on the bench in front of her plate, and sat on her other side. Tristan nodded in her direction, by way of greeting her, Carys assumed, and strained silence ensued, punctured only by the low voices of the other men in the tavern and Imogen slurping her stew noisily.

Carys sighed audibly in relief when Vanora appeared from the kitchen, but the smile the older woman gave her was tight, her skin grey-tinged and her brow furrowed. The other serving girls seemed to think nothing of it, and perhaps Tristan had not noticed for he said nothing. Carys, however, was concerned, and she followed Vanora into the kitchen.

"I'll be right out with your breakfast, Carys," Vanora told her, her tone sharper than usual.

Carys shook her head; "No, I wanted to ask if everything was alright? You do not look well."

Vanora narrowed her eyes. "Thanks very much," she snapped. Taken aback, Carys was at a loss for words. She hovered awkwardly in the doorway while Vanora made as much noise as possible in the kitchen, ringing her hands and debating whether to leave or to push the matter further. "What are you still standing there for?" Vanora demanded finally, rounding on her, her mouth twisted into a sneer. "Get out of my –" Vanora was interrupted by the cry of pain that tore from her throat. Clutching her belly, she doubled over.

Carys hurried to her side, steadying her by the shoulders while she eased herself onto a chair in the corner. "Vanora, are you having your baby?"

"No, no," she gasped, "it is stomach pain, nothing more."

"You are not well," Carys insisted. "I should take you to the infirmary."

"I'm fine, Carys," Vanora growled, easing up onto her feet, only to be forced back onto the chair by another wave of pain. She looked up at Carys with bloodshot, almost desperate eyes. "I think I may be having my baby." To punctuate the statement, Vanora's water broke, seeping through her skirt, and she burst into tears.

Carys was torn between laughing, and crying herself. She settled on hugging Vanora's head to her chest until she had stopped sobbing. Looking up at Carys with watery eyes, Vanora said, "Can you find Bors?"

Carys nodded hastily, squeezing Vanora's hand before dodging out of the kitchen. She scanned the tavern, hoping that Bors would be there. He wasn't, but her eyes fell on Tristan just as he was about to leave. She sprinted for him, and grabbed his arm to stop him from leaving.

"Tristan," she began, but upon noticing just how large and well muscled his arm was, promptly forgot what she had been about to say.

He stared down at her long, pale hands, and scanned her slim, smooth forearms where the sleeves of the grey gown opened to reveal them, and then looked down into her face. Her grey eyes were wide, her full lips slightly parted. With a sharp intake of breath, Carys removed her hands, placing one on her hip and the other scratching at the scar on her temple. When she frowned, her nose wrinkled slightly, he noticed, and then wondered why he would notice such a trivial thing about her.

"Apologies," she choked out, "Erm … I was just wondering if, erm … you would mind watching over Vanora while I find Bors?" She avoided his gaze, studying her feet, or his feet, or Imogen's feet, who was dancing around them.

"Is she having the baby?" She asked excitedly, and Carys nodded. "I'll look after her!" Imogen sped off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Carys alone with Tristan.

He inclined his head, and moved to follow Imogen, but before he could slip past her, Carys stopped him again with a light touch to his arm that she withdrew so quickly one might think she had been burned. He looked down at her, one eyebrow raised expectantly. "Do you, erm … know where I might find Bors?" And then she fixed him with a look so beguiling it made him feel giddy. She was far too bewitching for her own good, Tristan decided, his ire rising.

"I'll find Bors, you take Vanora to the infirmary," he said gruffly, and he swept out of the tavern before she had another opportunity to bat her eyelashes at him. He really, truly hoped her memory returned soon.

For most women, the walk to the infirmary might have been long and torturous, shuffling and groaning in pain, but Vanora was definitely not most women. She might have held Carys's arm for support, and walked a little slower than she usually would, but for some reason while watching Vanora plough through the streets, and the crowd part before her, Carys thought that there might as well have been a bull let loose on the fort.

Once in a room at the infirmary, Imogen found Bronwyn and Carys helped her remove Vanora's clothing until she was clad only in her shift. Vanora laid back on the bed with a groan, and Carys untied her tight braid, combing her fingers deftly through her thick crimson locks while Imogen dabbed her forehead with a cool cloth. Vanora sighed in pleasure, reaching back to squeeze Carys's hand and touching Imogen's hair softly.

Bronwyn was quick and efficient making preparations, and was almost finished by the time Enid joined them. Bors burst into the room shortly after, and Vanora reached out to him, smiling. He took her hand and kissed it, and then her mouth, and Carys was struck by the tenderness in their eyes.

Soon, though, Bronwyn was harping at Bors to get out. "I can't work in this tiny room with your great bulk in here, now out!" Grumbling, Bors left. "You too, Imogen," Bronwyn said, in a gentler tone than the one she'd used on Bors.

"But I want to help!" Imogen whined.

"I know, but this is no place for a child."

Grumbling, Imogen left, leaving only Carys, Enid and Bronwyn. Carys suddenly dreaded being in the room, and felt hot and agitated. She was greatly relieved when Bronwyn handed her a bucket and asked her to fetch some cold water from the pump outside.

Vanora was in labour for the entire day, and well into the night. It became so hot in the room with the fire and the bodies that soon, the four of them were soaked clear through with sweat, though Vanora was practically bathing in it. Carys became highly anticipatory of the times Bronwyn required more water, at which time she would splash her arms and flushed face to cool herself before returning to the inferno. Bors remained stationed at the door of the infirmary the entire time. Each time she passed him, she'd touch his shoulder and he would pat her hand.

Carys was grateful that all she was required to do was mop Vanora's face and chest and hold her hand; Enid massaged Vanora's swollen belly and assisted Bronwyn with bloodied rags that turned Carys's stomach, the sisters all the while chatting animatedly about Gawain, Kay, and children. Vanora, for obvious reasons, did not say much, and Carys was stunned that they could go about this so nonchalantly. Remembering how many children Vanora had, she assumed that this had become somewhat routine for Bronwyn and Enid.

Finally, when the moon was high in the inky sky, Bronwyn's words were magic. "It's coming, Vanora."

Vanora clutched Carys's hand even tighter, gritted her teeth and threw her head back in a tremendous effort that turned her face as red as the coals, and then Bronwyn had the creature in her arms, ugly and squirming, slimy and purple. Vanora fell back against the pillows in relief, breathing easily and smiling slightly, and Carys couldn't help but smile too as she wiped Vanora's face with water.

"You did it," Carys said gently, smoothing the sweat from her forehead, and Vanora's smile broadened as she squeezed her hand. Carys winced, hoping it wasn't broken.

"It's a boy," Enid said, handing the baby, swaddled in a blanket and shrieking his tiny lungs out, to Vanora, who smiled at him with incredible fondness.

Carys swept out of the room to fetch Bors, who had dozed off against the wall, a half-eaten roll in his hand and an empty pitcher of wine in the other. She crouched next to him, and shook him awake. He opened bleary eyes, smacking his lips like a cow chewing cud.

"What?" he groaned, his breath smelling strongly of wine.

"You've had a baby boy," she told him, and he looked sideways at her, frowning, as if he didn't understand. His confusion passed quickly, and he leapt to his feet, dragging her along with him. Grabbing her face between his hands, he kissed her full on the mouth.

Abruptly as he had seized her, he released her, and stunned, she stumbled backward, watching him dart down the hallway with a frown. Bewildered, she shook her head, and then meandered over to the water pump, splashing her face with the gurgle of water. She didn't need cold water; she needed a bath, and she made her way towards the Knights' barracks and their luxurious bathhouse with a dazed smile on her face.

* * *

Tristan, for reasons unbeknownst to himself, followed her there. She may have just finished with Vanora, or she might have been sleep walking again, but either way, he didn't want her getting ambushed by Roman creeps again. At least, that's what he was telling himself. On the other hand, if she did get attacked again, it would give him the perfect excuse to rescue her. Tristan shook his head at the thought; he was not some white Knight, and she was a Woad, not some helpless damsel in distress. This whole situation was, frankly, ridiculous. And yet, he still did not have the fortitude to turn and walk away.

When Carys did not emerge some time later, Tristan steeled himself and waltzed casually into the bathhouse. He needn't have bothered affecting nonchalance; she was fast asleep, seated on the bench that ran the length of the pool, her arms folded on the lip of the pool and her head cradled in her arms.

He couldn't help but chuckle – the girl fell asleep in the oddest places. Crouching next to her, he shook her awake, lest she drown herself. Grumbling, she swatted at his hand, turning her face away from him. He shook her harder. She grumbled a little louder.

"It can't be morning yet," she mumbled in protest.

"No," Tristan agreed, "But you have to get out of the bath."

"I don't want to," she whinged, pushing out her lower lip but not opening her eyes.

"You'll drown," he warned.

She frowned slightly, pressing her mouth into a firm line. "I don't care." He sighed, and she cracked one eye open. "Why are _you_ here?"

"I thought you might try to drown yourself in your sleep," he responded smoothly. "Looks like I was right."

"I was not trying to _drown_ myself," she replied huffily. She continued speaking, but her words drifted into a murmur and became unintelligible as she dozed off again.

"Out," Tristan said forcefully.

Scrunching up her face, Carys groaned, and made a very dramatic show of crossing to the other side of the pool, nearer to where her dress hung over one of the steam vents. She rounded on him with a stern glare. "Will you at least turn your back?"

With a smirk, he obliged, and when she came to stand beside him, her boots in one hand while she rubbed her bleary eyes vigorously with the others, he thought that he might as well have looked upon her naked, for all the good the pale gown did while wet. Clearing his throat, he tore his gaze from her and led the way to the door.

She shuffled behind him, stifling a yawn. Her hair was dripping, and she steamed in the chill night air like some sort of wraith that had recently made its way from hell. Eyes half-closed, she shivered slightly, but followed him almost like a dog might, chin to chest and completely unconcerned for her surroundings. He toyed with the notion of carrying her, but was spared weighing the decision when she stumbled and nearly fell in her fatigue. He caught her and lifted her, though she did not make it easy, flopping around like a limp rag doll, but finally he got her in his arms. Her head lolled over his arm, her arms spread eagled. He thought idly that anyone who saw them would surely think she'd drowned.

After a few moments, she lifted her head, resting it against his shoulder and blinking up at him with watery eyes. "I can walk, you know," she told him matter-of-factly.

"I've seen you do it," he quipped.

Smiling, she said, "I'm usually quite good at it."

"But not tonight."

"No," she murmured, "Not tonight." She heaved a sigh, and muttered, "Helping people give birth is hard work."

"Imagine what its like for the mother," he said, his voice rumbling pleasantly in his chest against her ear.

Carys shuddered, but said no more.

* * *

Although Carys was not heavy by any means, Tristan's arms were aching by the time they reached the infirmary, and it was with relief that he set her down. Immediately she began to shiver, and she took a step away from him to counter the urge to snatch him back to her. She opened her mouth to thank him, but he cut across her. "Best get inside," he said gruffly, "Before you catch a chill."

She nodded, hugging herself, but did not move. Rocking from the balls of her feet to her heels, she studied the reflection of the moon in the pool around the water pump, and then gazed sidelong at him. His clothes and hair blended into the shadows, and the way he tilted his head she could see naught but the slope of one cheek and the prow of his nose, and the feral gleam of his topaz eyes. Jitters in her belly brought her back to her senses and Carys shivered again, rubbing her arms, rough with goosebumps. "Erm … thank you for … the ride?" Tristan's mouth twitched and Carys smiled, backing slowly towards the door. "Good night," she said softly, and turned away.

Tristan's body acted of its own volition when it leapt forward, seizing her by the shoulders and spinning her around. She looked up at him with wide eyes, a small frown, and her lips forming a small "o" of surprise. He yanked her towards him, and kissed her soundly on the mouth. Just as abruptly, he ended the kiss, almost shoving her away from him. "Good night," he said firmly, and stalked into the night.

Dumbfounded, Carys watched him go. What was it about this courtyard that had people kissing her? She made a mental note to avoid this area in the future. Touching her tingling lips, she smiled slightly. Or, perhaps not …

* * *

A/N : Fluff and nonsense in this chapter, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway!

xXAngelStormXx : Thank you for your review, I'm happy you're enjoying the story. No, unfortunately we will meet the Roman again in later chapters. I hope you liked this chapter!

.94 : Thank you so much! I'm really pleased that you like it, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

THE DEADLY ANGEL : Thank you so much! I know this chapter was kind of boring, but the next one is going to be good!

Winged Seraph : Thank you! I also really like Carys, and I'm trying to keep Tristan as surly as possible, haha. I hope you liked this chapter.

Vamsi : I hope I didn't disappoint you with this chapter - I'm really glad that you like it! :D

To all of my readers, thank you (REVIEW)! And to those that do review, thank you! As lame as it sounds, it really motivates me to keep going and your positive feedback makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. ^_^

LOVE!


	9. Nine

**Chapter Nine**

Tristan cursed himself all the way back to his hut, cursed himself until he fell asleep, and cursed himself when he woke in a foul mood in the morning. What, in the name of the gods had he been thinking, kissing her? He was short with Imogen, causing her to storm off with Nim, Sura's daughter, without joining him for breakfast. He was gruff with the new serving girl, eliciting a look of terror from her young eyes, and he said even less than usual to his fellow Knights, which was, in itself, a feat.

And it was all _her_ fault. He didn't see her that morning, for which he felt compelled to thank the gods. He was currently weighing the pros and cons of tying a sack over her head and dumping her somewhere in the forest north of the wall. No doubt one of her own would find her, and then all would be well.

One could only imagine his relief when Galahad, looking melancholy, sat beside him in the tavern. This was really nothing new; Galahad looked melancholy quite frequently – it was what he said that interested Tristan.

"The guards brought in a Woad trying to climb over the wall," he said, "Gave him quite a beating – lucky Jols was there, heard him mention Carys's name."

Tristan looked sharply at Galahad. "He knows Carys?"

Galahad shrugged, his mouth turned downwards. "It would appear so. D'you think he'll take her from us?"

"I hope so," Tristan muttered.

Galahad narrowed his eyes and glared. "What was that?"

Tristan waved his hand flippantly, getting to his feet, "Nothing. Where is he?"

"In the gaol," Galahad replied, "What are you – " But Tristan had already swept out of the tavern, eager to meet the man who would bring Tristan some peace.

* * *

The Woad was a sad creature, for certain, with a split lip, a missing tooth, one eye swelling shut, and blood dripping sluggishly from a broken nose. His clothing was worn, almost ragged, save the heavy fur draped over his shoulders. His blond hair, long and unkempt, was matted with blood and dirt.

He jumped to his feet in an ungainly motion when he saw the Knight, which made Tristan frown. Clumsiness was not part of a Woad's repertoire, and neither were they as hulking as the blond giant before him now – bulk did a person who relied on their agility no good at all. A mocking grin twisted the Woad's battered mouth, and the eye that was not swollen shut was as blue as the sky and as cold as ice. Tristan was on edge the moment he met his gaze.

"A Sarmatian Knight," said the Woad, "to what do I owe the honour?"

"Why were you trying to get into the fort?" Tristan demanded, without pretence.

The Woad arched a pale eyebrow. "I am looking for someone," he said curtly.

"Who?"

"My sister," he mumbled.

"What makes you think she's here?"

"I saw you people take her!" The Woad raged suddenly. "I know she's here."

Wary, Tristan said, "Perhaps, perhaps not."

"She is," the Woad insisted, "Maybe you've seen her? She's tall, slim, with hair the color of a raven's wing and skin like the moon."

Tristan frowned. He did not like the way the Woad described her, with something like lust in his eye. "Many people fit that description," he parried.

"None of them are my sister!" The Woad growled, "Except for one. Carys."

* * *

Carys did not go to breakfast, but directly to the stables when she woke early that morning. She was hungry, but not nearly hungry enough to venture anywhere near where Tristan might be. What had he meant, kissing her like that? Bors's kiss – if it could even be called that – was one of gratitude, one of happiness at the news of the birth of his son. He probably would have kissed the extremely frightening Angharad if she had been the one to deliver the news.

But Tristan … first, he hated her, and now, he was kissing her? It was absurd, honestly. And it had happened so quickly – too quickly. She had not even had the opportunity to take more than a breath of his sweet musk, hadn't tasted his lips, hadn't felt more than a brief graze of his beard against her skin. Shaking her head, she redoubled her effort pounding a horseshoe into shape. The ringing of the metal made her ears buzz, and it was no surprise that she didn't hear Kay call her name the first, second, or third time he did so.

Finally, he grabbed her shoulder, and Carys whipped around with a small cry, holding the hammer at the ready. He looked down at her, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Are you going to bash my head in with that?"

Carys looked at the hammer, and then back at him before setting it down hastily. "Of course not," she said, with a nervous laugh, patting the handle of the tool. "What's up?"

Kay watched her fidget for a moment with a smile tugging at his mouth before he responded. She seemed unable to decide where to put her hands; first they were on her hips, then on the table, on her hips again, before she finally settled on crossing her arms over her chest. "I thought you'd like to know they've got a Woad holed up in the gaol, maybe you might know him?"

All at once, Carys looked less jittery, and a slow smile brightened her face. "A Woad? May I?"

He nodded and Carys slipped out of the smithy, sprinting through the street. She had passed the gaol once before, she was sure … the trouble was, remembering where to find it. It was an out-of-the-way location; no one wanted to be bothered with the riff-raff thrown there.

Breathless by the time she found it, she darted past the guard before he could stop her, and upon rounding the corner that led to the cells, collided with none other than Tristan. She stumbled and he caught her, righting her on her feet while she blushed fiercely and berated herself; how many more times would this happen before she would learn to look where she was going?

Releasing her, she cleared her throat loudly, discomfited, and proceeded to take great pains in smoothing out her clothing, finding a streak of soot to be particularly fascinating. He flattened his mouth to prevent a smile. Finally, she looked up, but did not meet his eye. Subconsciously, she scratched the puckered pink line at her temple, before saying, "Excuse me," and making to step around him.

He let her by, but followed. There was something about the blond Woad that made him uneasy, and as much as he wanted to be rid of Carys, he did not want her to go anywhere with him. She glanced at him over her shoulder and frowned. He gestured towards the end of the hall, and she continued on.

When she reached the last cell, she peered into it, hoping to see one of the people who had been haunting her dreams of late, but no – it was not a person she was glad to see. Leaning casually against the bars, a man called Hathus leered at her. She felt the blood drain from her head, and she pressed herself against the wall opposite his cell, as far from him as possible. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she felt sure she was about to pass out, until she felt the rage stir in her gut, coursing through her veins.

"Hello Carys," he said lecherously. She shuddered, bile rising in her throat. Her body tensed, and in a single leap she crossed the space between them, making a noise like an angry cat in her throat. She didn't notice the pain of her body slamming into the bars, her arms flailing at him. She managed to punch his jaw and scratch his throat before he caught her wrists, holding her fast despite her struggles. He leaned in, smelling her hair and groaning softly in her ear.

Her stomach heaved, and she cringed away, unwittingly pressing herself into Tristan, who had materialised beside her, glowering viciously at the big blond man. "Let her go," he said through gritted teeth. He pressed the dagger at Hathus's side in a little deeper, making sure he took Tristan seriously. As it was, he merely glanced from the dagger back to Tristan's face, and then released Carys with a derisive glare.

Pale and shaking, Carys took off in the direction she'd come. "She's got you wrapped around her finger too," said the blond man scornfully.

"Who are you?" Tristan demanded.

"Be careful of her; she runs hot, then cold – love you one minute and try to kill you the next."

* * *

Carys flew out of the gaol, screams – her screams – echoing in her head. Hathus's face hovered over her in her memory; his long hair was in her face. His breath was sour, and he was hurting her, tearing her apart. The memory was as fresh, as painful as if it had happened yesterday.

On trembling legs, Carys ducked into an alleyway and sank down onto the ground, folding her arms on her knees and resting her forehead in her arms. _Carys, _she told herself, _You got through this before, you can do it again. Just breathe ..._

She followed the order, breathing in deeply and releasing it slowly. She felt her heart steady, but as her eyes slid closed, flashes images of that terrible day returned; the faces of the dead ... there had been so many dead, their blood seeping into the earth – not just of Woads, but of their enemies, too. Hathus, destroying her, and her mother's eyes, a beautiful blue-grey even in death, staring into the next world.

Carys choked on the next breath she took, and she raised her head, rubbing her face vigorously with her hands. A shadow fell across the opening of the alley, and Carys was on her feet in one smooth movement, poised for attack before she noted that it was Tristan, silhouetted by the sun at his back.

The adrenaline in her veins made her restless, and she began to pace, her mouth dry and her skin hot. He advanced on her, making a grab for her arm, but she twisted away, glaring darkly before resuming her pacing. "What was that?" he growled at her.

She swallowed hard and stood before him, her hands on her hips, but she continued shifting her weight between her feet. She ran her hands over her thick braid before tossing it over her shoulder, then scratched her temple, as was becoming a nervous habit, he noticed, then rubbed her index finger over her lower lip, before finally crossing her arms over her chest.

What was it about that man that had her so unsettled? He wondered. He had never seen her so agitated. Her eyes were very bright in her pale face, though she would not meet his gaze, looking everywhere but at him, it seemed.

"What is he doing here?" she said at last.

He told her, "A patrol brought him in."

"Do you know who? I'd like to hug the man who kicked his face in." She began to pace again, not expecting an answer.

Tristan, becoming agitated himself watching her pace back and forth, seized her shoulders and held her still. "Who is he, Carys?" He manoeuvred himself until she was forced to look into his face and he saw a kind of wild desperation in her eyes that made him catch his breath. "Carys," he said again, in the firm tone he employed on Imogen, "Who is he?"

She swallowed hard again and looked away, and Tristan realized with a sinking feeling that her eyes were shining with tears. "His name is Hathus," she choked out, dashing the tears from her eyes as they fell.

"And who is he?" Tristan probed, when she did not volunteer any further information.

Carys felt her throat close and her heart squeeze. "He's a filthy bastard."

"He told me he was your brother."

She laughed mirthlessly. "Tristan," she said dubiously, "I'll admit I don't know much about making families, but I would find it very odd if one sibling were as dark as I, while the other was as pale as a _Saxon._"

Tristan detected the emphasis she placed on the word Saxon, and his eyebrows snapped together. "He's a Saxon?" She arched an eyebrow at him, her mouth tightening. That was confirmation enough. "What is he doing here?"

She shrugged. "I don't remember the story he told us," he could tell she was lying, and Carys knew she did a poor job of it. Thankfully, Tristan had enough tact not to probe. "But whatever it was, we should never have believed him." She grimaced, and kicked at a rock on the ground, watching it skitter across the stones dispassionately.

"What happened?" She gulped, looking away. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes, and she pulled in a deep, quavering breath, but did not speak. "What happened?" he repeated, taking her shoulders again. She twisted away from him, stepping out of reach.

Shaking her head slowly, she said, "I can't..."

He approached her, like one might approach a wounded animal, but she continued to retreat. "Tell me what happened, Carys."

She shook her head again. "No," she said firmly, "I can't." She snuffled pathetically, and Tristan dipped his head to look into her face.

"He's saying not to trust you," he told her gruffly.

She looked sidelong at him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and contempt. "Well," she said slowly, a tremor in her voice, "If you choose to trust him over me, on your head be it."

Incensed by the threat, Tristan seized her arm, just above the elbow, in a grip with bruising force. "I don't trust either of you," he hissed.

She wrenched away, and for a moment considered striking him. "I don't care if you don't trust me! I'm a Woad, you're a Knight – we're enemies! But it could become very dangerous for you if you were to continue running around kissing your enemies."

* * *

Carys's walk back to the stables passed in a blur, as did the rest of the morning. The maelstrom of emotions were blinding and troubling; fear, rage, sadness ... she could not keep track.

Kay knew something was wrong – an idiot would know, and he thought it must have something to do with the Woad at the gaol. He could admit being curious, but he had seen enough of his brothers in the same state Carys was in now – had been in the same frame of mind, to know that she would share when she was ready.

But he drew the line when she mutilated several horseshoes before snapped the handle from the hammer, was careless with the fire poker and burned a hole right through her shirt, singing her belly, and cut her arm open on the sharp edge of an unfinished wheel rim. He sent her to the infirmary mid-afternoon with a sharp order not to return until tomorrow.

She left wordlessly, and was just as silent throughout Bronwyn's ministrations. But Bronwyn was a victim of her curiosity, and could not help but asking.

Warily, she said, "Carys, whatever is the matter?"

Carys frowned, staring hard at the floor while Bronwyn cleansed the cut on her forearm. If she could tell anyone, she could tell Bronwyn, couldn't she? – But even as she thought about doing so, her throat tightened and tears stung her eyes. No ... no, she couldn't, she decided. "It's nothing important," she choked, dashing the tears from her cheeks.

"Is it the Woad, in the gaol?"

Carys looked at her sharply, her mouth tight. "A man I wished to never see again."

Bronwyn nodded, understanding that Carys would say no more. She squeezed the girl's shoulder, and Carys in turn squeezed her hand, smiling half-heartedly.

The cut on Carys's arm was long; from her elbow, to the delicate underside of her wrist, but luckily wasn't deep, or it would be bleeding far more than it was. Bronwyn laid a strip of heavy white linen over the wound, and then wrapped her entire forearm with the same fabric.

"Would you like to join me in the garden? I have to gather some herbs ..." Carys shook her head, but thanked her. "Alright," she said. "I'll be back later with a poultice for that burn."

Carys laid back on her bed, her head tipped back over the bed and her legs up against the wall. She listened to the door slide shut, and the sound of her own breathing. Voices drifted up to her from the street, along with the blissful laughter of children. Carys thought of Enid, probably with Gawain; of Kay and Bronwyn, the proof of their love growing in Bronwyn's belly; Vanora and Bors with their brood of children – the manifestations of adoration.

That was what love was supposed to be like; beautiful, sweet and glowing, breathing new life into the world. Love was not cruel, it did not destroy. Her heart lurched in her chest, and hot tears flowed into her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut, only to see Hathus's face floating there. Smiling warmly down at her; tucking a curl behind her ear; touching her hand when she offered a daisy chain; the way he gazed at her across the fire. Then, he was laughing in her face, cutting her, killing her, splitting her apart.

With a growl in her throat, Carys pushed her hands into her eye sockets. She supposed a benefit of losing her memory was that she had forgotten that day, but now she was being forced to relive the most horrible event in her young life.

The pressure of her hands over her eyes caused stars to burst in the darkness, and when she removed her hands, Tristan's face had replaced Hathus's. Tristan, with his unruly dark hair and haphazard braids; his black beard framing his full, slightly downturned mouth; his glimmering topaz eyes that somehow managed to jumpstart her innards every time she met them. She imagined her fingers in his hair, his lips tracing the line of her throat. She heard his voice, humming in her ear, the warmth of his breath on her skin.

A decision was made in that moment; one she didn't realize had been made until she found herself outside Tristan's home. Standing before his hut, she hesitated, regretting having made the trip and debating turning around. Finally, she forced herself to knock on the door.

It was thrown open several minutes later by a shirtless Tristan. Carys's breath rushed out of her when she found herself staring directly at his well-muscled chest, covered in dark springy hair that tapered over the ridges of his abdominals, trailing into the waistline of his pants.

"What?" he demanded gruffly, pulling a dark grey tunic over his head.

She gulped and met his eyes rather sheepishly. "Erm ..." she said, and his glare deepened. "Listen," she began, and he folded his arms over his chest.

"I'm listening," he informed her curtly.

Annoyed, Carys pushed past him into the house. Avoiding his formidable stare, she said, "I don't know why I care what you think of me." She heard the door latch and looked up, to see Tristan walking slowly towards her, his brow pinched. "But I do. I care what you think of me." Tristan said nothing, hovering near her silently. Nervous, Carys said, "Sit down," she commanded, "you're making me nervous."

Smirking, Tristan obliged, watching her pace uneasily. "Well?" he demanded.

"Don't rush me," she snapped. "This is hard enough." It was some time before she finally started; "Alright, so ... Hathus. When he came to our tribe, he told us he was a Gaul, who had deserted from the Roman Legion. Deserters are killed if they are found, and he was very ... kind," she snorted, "a wonderful actor ..." her mouth pulled down at the corners. "Anyway, for the first few months, everything was fine. He seemed genuine; he scouted with us, ate with us, fought with us ... I thought he was one of the best men I'd ever met –"

"You loved him," Tristan accused her, a burning feeling in his temples.

She glared viciously. "Don't interrupt. I went for a walk one night, and I saw him with several other men, as blond and as big as he was, but I would recognize the language they spoke anywhere ... Saxon.

"Thinking back, I should have returned to the camp, warned my people, but I didn't. I didn't tell anyone until it was too late. I tried to beat Hathus at his own game, but I'd never had a cause to be deceitful before, and he'd had plenty of practice. I'm sure he knew what I was up to from the beginning.

"A few days later, I was out hunting ..." she frowned. "I was with someone ..." A flash of a beaming smile, huge grey-green eyes and golden-brown curls shining in the sun, but no name. "I don't remember her name, but I was with someone when ..." she swallowed hard, and she frowned, a vertical line appearing above her slim nose. She cleared her throat, and hugged herself.

Suddenly, Tristan did not want her to go on. He had a feeling he knew what she was about to say. He didn't know what it was about women crying, but he couldn't bear it. Impulsively he stood, going to her, but she ducked away from him. "Let me finish," she said breathlessly, a tear slipping down her cheek. Tristan backed away, but did not return to his seat. She drew a quivering breath, and continued. "I don't remember what happened to the girl I was with, but I was alone when Hathus found me," her voice broke, as did the dam holding back her tears. She emitted a choked sob, clutching her chest, and Tristan reached for her again. She seized his forearm in one hand, gripping it so hard her knuckles turned white.

Haltingly, she went on. "After ... after, the girl I'd been with found me," she sniffled, releasing Tristan's arm to brush away her tears. "We went back to the village ... everything was gone – burned to the ground. There were bodies – Woads and Saxons – everywhere." She coughed wetly. "My mother ..." her lower lip trembled, and she fell to her knees, bent double.

Dammit, he wished she wouldn't cry. Her vulnerability made him shudder. He kneeled before her, hugging her head to his chest. As she cried, he found himself noticing how soft her hair was; how pretty she smelled; how smooth and warm her skin was, and before he could think himself out of it, he found himself placing two fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head back gently.

Her pale skin was blotchy and red, her nose and eyes streaming. Her eyes were bright, dark and open like the mouth of a cave, sucking him in. She was absolutely irresistible. He traced his thumb over her lower lip, and Carys shivered. She studied the tattoos upon his cheekbones; they were intricate and beautiful, accentuating his hypnotizing golden eyes, with their brown sugar starburst that captivated her. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and Tristan surged forward, his other hand slipping beneath her heavy braid and pulling her towards him. He angled his mouth over hers, the curve of her slender neck fitting perfectly in the cradle of his palm. Her lips were moist with tears, and tasted salty, but they were soft and warm and she kissed him with a clumsy enthusiasm that only served to enflame him more.

His beard rasped her skin, and the calluses on his hands were rough on her throat, driving a chill up her spine. She sighed softly, and the hand on the back of her neck tightened, holder her closer as his tongue gently dipped into her mouth. She touched the tip of her tongue to his, her heart fluttering –

And then someone was pounding on Tristan's door. They froze, and with a groan, Tristan pulled away, dropping a firm kiss onto her mouth before jumping to his feet. He threw open the door, annoyed, to see Galahad looking edgy in the doorway.

"What is it?" Tristan demanded brusquely.

"The Saxon. He's gone."

* * *

A/N : Hayo! Thank you to everyone who read the last chapter, as well as this one. Some smut in this chapter, and the start of some intrigue. I started this story with a specific direction in mind, and now it appears Bow, Meet Arrow and Carys, in particular, have had other plans all along. I hope you're enjoying this story so far, I can't wait to hear your thoughts.

Thank you to :

xXAngelStormXx – So, they have kissed again, but I don't think Tristan is done being cryptic and confusing. I hope you liked this chapter!

THE DEADLY ANGEL – I'm glad you liked the last chapter; as for what's going to happen between Tristan and Carys ... we'll both just have to wait and see.

CeraTetrinaara – I'm really, really pleased that you love this story, and I'm glad you like Imogen – I do too. I hope you liked this chapter!

Please review!

LOVE.


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